


The Brave New World

by Brownies96



Series: Good Omens Missing Chapters [12]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Agender Aziraphale, Aziraphale is doing his best, Big sister Pepper, Crowley is good with kids, Genderfluid Crowley, Healing and Recovery, Healthy Relationships, Idiots in Love, M/M, Multi, Other, Tooth Rotting Fluff, Warlock is autistic, Warlock is trans, What Happened Next, but healing, everyone is traumatised, heaven and hell against humanity, not pining anymore, revenge of heaven and hell, the dowlings are shitty parents, there's also a plot in here I swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 54,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brownies96/pseuds/Brownies96
Summary: What happened next?Well, the not-antichrist desperately needs their godparentsTadfield needs protectingThe Them want to plant a vegetable gardenAnd Heaven and Hell are planning somethingSo business as usual really
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Beelzebub/Gabriel (Good Omens), Warlock Dowling/Adam Young, if you squint, implied
Series: Good Omens Missing Chapters [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1506341
Comments: 43
Kudos: 220





	1. Miracles, Money, and Cost

On the second day of the world that shouldn’t have been, Crowley and Aziraphale spent the day doing Aziraphale’s inventory. That is, Aziraphale ran inventory and Crowley found new and interesting ways to drape himself over piles of books.

It was strange, Aziraphale thought, surely more should have changed between them after the previous night. But they had already been ‘together’ (to use a colloquialism) in so many ways before then, that very little of their behaviour needed to change in order to accommodate their new world order.

There were some small changes, like Aziraphale being able to kiss Crowley in thanks when he brought Aziraphale a mug of cocoa a few hours into the inventory. But for the most part things were the same, just framed differently: Aziraphale could feel Crowley’s love for him, it was so overpowering that he couldn’t miss it if he tried. He could feel every flash of affection, the care and consideration behind every gesture. It was heady and intoxicating and Aziraphale wanted to sink into it forever.

Could he have this forever? He certainly hoped so, but there was something that made panic rise in his chest. They’d refused to cross that line for so many years for a reason. The powers of Heaven and Hell had already tried to destroy them once, and yes, he hoped they’d scared them off for the meantime, but there was always that fear, that they could come back. Even if they had fallen for their trick and believed they couldn’t kill them, there were other ways to make someone suffer.

“You’re getting distracted, angel,” Crowley said from where he had constructed himself a sort of daybed from the books Aziraphale had already marked as being present and correct, “You haven’t marked your list in ten minutes.”

“Just a bit distracted, I suppose,” Aziraphale replied.

“Oh?” Crowley said, leaning forward in a way that was very reminiscent of his snake form’s strike pose. “What could possibly be distracting you from your beloved books?” he teased.

Aziraphale knew what Crowley was getting at, and while that was a large part of his distraction, there was also something beneath it. This was the downside of allowing himself to love Crowley: The ever-present fear that something would take him away.

“Well, of course, there’s you,” he said indulgently. “But I’m afraid there’s also the fact that we tricked Heaven and Hell yesterday.” Aziraphale frowned, there wasn’t an easy way to phrase this, “And whether or not they find out, they’re certainly still quite angry with us.”

Crowley nodded, “Bit of an understatement, really.”

Aziraphale places his list on top of the pile of books he had been archiving and turned to give Crowley his full attention.

“Do you really think they’ll leave us alone?” he asked.

“I don’t think they’ll come marching through the front door tomorrow, if that’s what you’re asking,” Crowley said, “but smaller stuff, I dunno.”

“You think they might cut us off from the sources of power?” Aziraphale felt a stab of fear.

“They’d have to think of it - they’re not that clever – but yeah, they might.” Crowley was clearly trying to sound nonchalant, but the idea of having to live cut off from the ability to perform miracles, was clearly getting to him. Aziraphale understood, he knew they’d joked about pretending to be humans in the past, but humans had a childhood and parents to help them learn to navigate the world without supernatural abilities.

“We were still able to perform miracles last night,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“E-erm yeah, It’d take a bit of time for them to do, wouldn’t it?”

“We should probably be careful not to draw their attention to the fact that we still have access to our powers.” Aziraphale was already trying to find some kind of solution.

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, “So no teleporting unless it’s an emergency, I guess. I’m more worried about all the paperwork and stuff.” That gave Aziraphale an idea.

They had some undetermined amount of time before they ran the very real risk of being cut off properly. Or perhaps they didn’t. Aziraphale was not going to wait around to find out. He walked over to his desk and lifted the false bottom off the top-drawer. He pulled out the paperwork he’d miracled into being over the years, as well as the deed to the shop. Most of it was so old no human in their right mind would ever accept it as some kind of form of identification.

He went back to his seat near Crowley and his piles of books to be archived.

“If there is any chance they could cut us off, then we need to act quickly, sort things out here so they can’t leave us without funds or anything of the sort.” Aziraphale put his papers on the desk and began updating them.

“Good point,” Crowley said, pulling out his phone. There was so much to fix, Aziraphale created a bank account where they hadn’t been one before (he’d found not being able to take cheques and later credit card payments had made customers less likely to buy books), he created a passable birth certificate, making his birthdate the 21st of October just because he could. After all, it was the first day anybody started counting.

The area around Crowley’s makeshift fainting couch was suddenly a great deal more organised as Crowley summoned similar paperwork into being. While Aziraphale’s desk looked as though it had been a victim of a paper hurricane, Crowley’s area was organised into files which he tucked away into a black leather binder that hadn’t existed until recently.

“This feels too simple,” Aziraphale said.

“Important things usually do,” Crowley replied. Aziraphale could read the expression on his face like it was one of his books, he was clearly thinking of the 14th Century, the first time Aziraphale had ever agreed to have anything to do with something resembling the Arrangement. To think, how different their lives had been if Aziraphale hadn’t gone along with it.

Aziraphale stood up and sat carefully on Crowley’s seat-book concoction. He didn’t approve of sitting on books in the slightest but he wanted to be close to Crowley badly enough that he was willing to overlook it. He could feel Crowley watching him, but he couldn’t see it. He reached a hand up to Crowley’s glasses.

“May I?” He asked.

“’Course,” Crowley said softly, as if he was afraid to say it too loud. Aziraphale felt himself smile when Crowley’s eyes were revealed, he still had to remind himself that it was OK now. He was allowed to be happy with Crowley.

“I keep having to remind myself that this is real,” Aziraphale confessed, “I’ve spent so much time stopping myself from reaching out, I think it’s going to take me some time to realise that we’re safe and we can have this.”

“Are we?” Crowley asked. “Safe?”

“Do you think we are?” Aziraphale asked, his hand back on Crowley’s face, tracing his jaw.

“I think we can be,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face as it drew closer to his, feeling like he was about to smile and cry all at the same time. And then they were kissing, and it wasn’t the exciting new kiss that was them discovering each other and that they could have each other. It wasn’t the intoxicating, desperate kisses from later that night. It was something else entirely, a message that resonated deep within their essences. _We are not alone_ ; _we never have to be alone again_.

The kiss ended only when they were both so full of its message that they couldn’t take it anymore.

Aziraphale looked into Crowley’s eyes. He’d never been the one to say it first, it was always Crowley, whether through deeds or words, but it was Aziraphale’s turn.

“I love you so very much, my dear,” he whispered.

Crowley just looked at him, there was so much happening behind his golden eyes that Aziraphale got lost in them and almost didn’t realise that Crowley was pulling him into an embrace.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Crowley whispered, his voice sounding rather hoarse, “the bookshop was burning and you were never coming back.”

Aziraphale hadn’t thought about that. Not really. He knew he hadn’t found Crowley in good condition after he’d been discorporated, and Crowley must have gotten Agnes Nutter’s book somehow, but he hadn’t really made the connection.

“I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale whispered back, he was sorry for so many things, for turning Crowley away, for letting him go. “You came back for me?”

“’Course I did,” Crowley said, “you called me.”

“If you still wanted to run away together, I could be convinced,” he echoed the olive branch he had offered in 1660.

“Maybe not to alpha centauri,” Crowley said, “but I could go for a holiday, unless you meant run away in the forever sense.” Crowley was rambling.

“A holiday would be perfect,” Aziraphale said. Oh, it would be so lovely to go away together; they’d always had to hold back from doing too much together for fear of getting caught. The plays, the concerts, even they had bordered on too much. But they really could ‘go off together’ which had seemed so impossible about 48 hours ago.

Aziraphale realised that Crowley was still holding him, it felt nice. Nice perhaps wasn’t the right word, but Aziraphale didn’t have a better one, if something could be intensely nice then this was it. The weight of Crowley’s head buried into his shoulder was a steady reminder of what they had fought for, and what they had won, for that matter.

“I don’t know about running away forever, but,” Aziraphale paused, was he really going to say this? He knew he had once accused Crowley of going too fast, but if that was ‘too fast’ then Aziraphale was currently approaching light speed without any signs of stopping.

But he had to say it, Crowley had to know. Aziraphale had lied, had repressed, had gone against his own wishes for their protection, had hurt Crowley more than he had ever deserved. But the truth, the truth he had tried to destroy so many times over in the past, was that in 6023 years of existence, Aziraphale had never known anyone else like Crowley. He couldn’t imagine how utterly unbearable those years would have been without him. Years without anyone to talk to but other angels, who had no understanding of Earth. Years without dinners, without the arts, without the shared jokes that hinted at their real feelings beneath – their real feelings about working for Heaven and Hell, their real feelings about humanity, and, most forbidden of all, their real feelings about each other.

“But since we have forever now, I would spend it with you, if you’ll let me,” Aziraphale said, running his hand through Crowley’s hair, “and when I say forever, I mean the real one. Not the one human’s mean when they actually mean their lifetime. I mean truly, every single day for the rest of time and everyday afterwards.”

Crowley breathed against his shoulder and looked up, “I’ve always been shit and telling you ‘no’, I’m not about to start now.”

Aziraphale huffed a laugh, which set Crowley laughing quietly as well.

“Got everything you need if they decide we’re to cut us off?” Crowley asked.

“I think so,” Aziraphale said. “What do you have in mind?”

“Well, this first,” Crowley said, leaning forward to kiss Aziraphale. Aziraphale responded with gusto, it felt like eating the perfectly crafted dessert, like finding the last copy of an out-of-print book, like something he’d waited his whole life for.

“And,” Crowley said, smiling as he pulled away, “I was going to ask if you wanted to have dinner at that Tapas place down the road that you like so much.”

“I would love to, my dear,” Aziraphale said, sensing the opportunity to surprise Crowley one more time, “in about five more minutes,” he said, pulling Crowley back to him for one more kiss.

[If you're wondering what happens in about an hour after Tapas click [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555637/chapters/51389107), warning here there be smut]


	2. Handing in Their Notice

It was strange to think that, after everything that had happened in the past week, Crowley and Aziraphale were still technically employed by the Dowlings at Winfield House. It was Crowley who had brought it up.

“We should probably hand in our notice,” he said, looking up from his phone. He was sprawled out over Aziraphale’s couch, his legs resting on Aziraphale’s lap, serving as a stand for the book his angel was reading.

“I think our offices got the message,” Aziraphale said.

“No not them, with the Dowlings,” Crowley explained. You would think that, after everything, Aziraphale would have run out of ways to exasperate him. You would be wrong.

“Oh, I suppose we should. This is the sort of thing people are supposed to use emails for now, isn’t it?”

“Er- hm- yeah, but,” Crowley was going to have to say it, “I was kinda thinking we should go in person,” he said with feigned nonchalance.

Aziraphale looked up from his book (an original print of Sir Thomas Moore’s _Utopia_ ) and examined Crowley who really wished Aziraphale would stop analysing him and just agree. But no, instead Aziraphale did the one thing that was worse, he remained silent, waiting for Crowley to elaborate. Crowley hated that he was so predictable, that Aziraphale knew exactly how to make him admit to things he never would under any other circumstances.

No, Crowley decided, he wasn’t going to fall for it this time. He looked right back at Aziraphale. He could stand his ground.

He could not stand his ground.

“I just wanna check on some stuff before we leave, is all,” he said knowing that Aziraphale would recognise that ‘stuff’ meant Warlock. He had to push down a pang of guilt at that, he could still remember seriously considering killing Warlock to stop the Apocalypse. He’d justified it then by reminding himself that Warlock would have killed everyone and everything, but it still hadn’t sat right with him. It was torture to be the only demon with something resembling a moral compass, though admittedly, it was more like a moral magnetised yo-yo.

“Of course we can,” Aziraphale said, turning back to his book. “We’ll go tomorrow.”

It felt different somehow, returning to the guise of Nanny Ashtoreth. Crowley had been her in a different world, a different life. She had to laugh when Brother Francis appeared where Aziraphale had once been.

“You know,” she said, “I always used to think about what it would be life if Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis were real people.”

“I must confess I did as well,” Aziraphale said, “it made for a rather good story, the gardener in love with the nanny.”

Crowley did not blush at that. Much. She still wasn’t used to hearing that Aziraphale loved her, every reminder made her want to do something disgustingly sappy and romantic.

“Get in the car, angel,” she said.

Mrs Dowling was sure this had to be some kind of oversight. There was no way Nanny Ashtoreth’s contract stated that she had no notice period and could resign immediately. There was also a message on her phone saying that one of the garden staff had the same issue with his contract. Who had been writing the contracts in 2013? This was unacceptable. But the contract was legally binding, so she had to honour it.

“Very well,” she said to Nanny Ashtoreth, dismissing her with a wave and wondering how on Earth she was supposed to manage Warlock now. He’d been near impossible to deal with over the last week (in which Nanny Ashtoreth had taken some annual leave). He was just so wilful all of a sudden. Great, there came the little shit now, home from school.

Crowley winced as she saw the large black car pull up out the front. She had gotten far too side tracked, talking to Aziraphale about the life their characters would have shared, and not noticed the time.

“Nanny?” Warlock said, when he exited the car and saw her.

Shit. “Yes, dear?”

Warlock’s phone chose that moment to ding, he looked at his phone, then back at Nanny Ashtoreth.

“You’re leaving?” Warlock demanded, signing the words as he spoke them. He hadn’t done that in years. She couldn’t think of anything to say. She gestured for Warlock to sit on the front steps with her.

Warlock followed her, pulling at the sleeves of his school uniform in a gesture that was very reminiscent of Aziraphale when he was nervous. They sat in silence for some time before Warlock spoke.

“Are you leaving because of me?”

“No,” she said immediately.

“You have to say that, though,” Warlock pointed out, not unfairly.

“But it’s still true,” she said firmly. “Brother Francis and I are leaving because-“

“You’re getting married?!” Warlock’s head shot up and he looked at her with more excitement than she’d seen rom him in a long time.

“In a way, yes,” she said, remembering Aziraphale’s promise of forever.

“I knew it!” He said.

Aziraphale chose this moment to come around the corner, because Crowley hadn’t been embarrassed enough today, carrying several boxes of books, a pile of books that looked far too heavy for any human to carry.

“You’re getting married!” Warlock said again. Crowley shrugged helplessly at Aziraphale from behind Warlock. “Can I come to the wedding?”

“That won’t be for some time yet,” Brother Francis said quickly.

“Then why are you leaving now?”

“Because you don’t need up anymore, dear,” Nanny Ashtoreth said.

“You’re 11 now,” Brother Francis added.

Warlock looked down at his hands, the excitement of being right about Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis was wearing off quickly.

Over his head, Crowley and Aziraphale looked at each other.

“I’m going to go put these in the car,” Brother Francis said to Warlock, looking meaningfully at the boxes in his arms, “and Nanny Ashtoreth is going to tell you everything.”

Warlock dragged his knees up towards him and folded his arms on top, shielding his face from the world. He turned his head slightly and looked at Nanny Ashtoreth.

“You’re really leaving?” he said, as if repeating the question would somehow change the answer.

“I’m going to tell you a story,” she said, “and after the story is done you can ask me any questions you want. But you have to wait until it’s done.”

“’M too old for stories,” Warlock objected.

“Not for this one, it took 6000 years to write” she replied, after all, Aziraphale had said ‘everything’.

“Once upon a time there were an angel and a demon,” she began. “They met in the garden of Eden after the angel told the demon that he’d given his magical sword to Adam and Eve so they would be safe after they’d been kicked out of the garden. The demon fell in love with the angel the moment he’d told him that.

“They were told by their bosses to stay on Earth to help humanity be good, in the angel’s case, or be bad, in the demon’s. As you can imagine, they ran into each other quite a lot. They started having lunch and dinner together when they saw each other, which they rather enjoyed even though it was very much against the rules for both of them.

“Now, the Earth is a big place and travelling everywhere all the time can be rather exhausting, so one day the demon suggested that they help each other out. Of course, the angel refused because they were on opposite sides.” She put on a mockery of Aziraphale’s voice for those last few words, before returning to Nanny Ashtoreth’s Scottish accent.

“But eventually, the angel came around, just when the demon was about to give up on him. In the demon’s defence, he had just had the worst 100 years of his very long life.

“So for the next few hundred years they helped each other when they could until they had a fight.” She decided not to go into the details of that. “It took them over 100 years to get over it, but they did, eventually. And just when it looked like things were going back to normal, the demon was called to deliver the antichrist and start the end of the world.

“The demon delivered the antichrist, but there was a mix-up at the hospital, and instead of going to the American diplomat’s family, he went to a very normal local family and grew up in the English countryside. But the angel and the demon didn’t know that.

“They decided that they quite liked the Earth and humans, so they decided to look after the antichrist together, in the hopes that, when he grew up, they would have cancelled each other out, the boy wouldn’t be good or evil, just normal and the world wouldn’t end.

“On the day of the antichrist’s 11 birthday, the angel and demon realised there had been a mistake. But it was too late, that was the day Armageddon started.” Crowley wasn’t sure how to sum up the rest of it. “The angel and the demon fought a lot to stop the end of the world and also with each other, but in the end the antichrist stopped it all because, without an angel or a demon, he’d grown up to be just normal too. So he stopped the end of the world. But the angel and the demon were in trouble. Heaven and Hell had wanted the world to end so they could fight each other.

“But the angel and the demon tricked them and escaped.”

“You forgot part of it,” Brother Francis said, walking back over from the car. “You forgot the part before the antichrist where the angel realised he was in love with the demon as well.”

“R-Right.” Crowley said, choking slightly on the word.

“And then,” Brother Francis continued, “after they had escaped, they finally told each other that they were in love, and it was all rather lovely.”

“Sshut up,” Crowley hissed.

Warlock looked between them in confusion, “You said they were both boys.”

“Gender isn’t real,” Crowley said, grateful for the distraction, “humans made it up. But,” he questioned his decision to do this only for a moment, “I usually look like this at the moment.”

Crowley’s form shifted back into what it had been for the last week. “Better?” he asked.

“How did you do that?” Warlock said, his eyes wide.

Crowley just sort of shrugged. “Please tell me you’re going to get out of that ridiculous get up,” he said to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale obliged, making Warlock gasp.

“You’re that crappy magician from my birthday party!” He said, which made Crowley almost fall off the steps in laughter.

“Erm, well I-“ Aziraphale was a little bit too flustered to say anything.

“Really, Nanny? You’re running away with the crappy magician?” Warlock said, which only made Crowley laugh harder.

“Warlock,” Aziraphale said, finding some shred of his dignity hiding under his shoe, “I’m surprised you don’t have more questions for us.”

“It’s pretty believable. I mean, when I was little she – he-“ Warlock turned to Crowley who shrugged “used to sing me to sleep with evil lullabies. And the eyes gave it away.”

“When did you see them?” Crowley demanded; he’d always been very careful not to take his sunglasses off around the kid.

“You know sunglasses aren’t, like, goggles, right? There are gaps around the sides. You’re some kind of cat demon, right, with the –“ Warlock gestured to his own pupils.

“Cat? No! I’m a snake demon. THE snake demon, in fact,” Crowley gestured indignantly to his tattoo.

“Cool!” Warlock said, looking at Crowley’s tattoo for the first time. But even that wave of excitement left with alarming speed. Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, they shared matching concerned glances.

“Listen, kid,” Crowley said, “I know your parents aren’t . . . ideal, and stuff’s been hard for you. So . . .” Was he really going to do this? Of course he was, he was powerless to resist twin hopeful looks from Warlock and Aziraphale. “Here.” He tapped Warlock’s phone screen. “You have my number now. If there’s an emergency and you need us, you can just call.”

Crowley stood up to go, taking the hand Aziraphale offered him. They both turned around to look at Warlock who had a myriad of emotions mixed on his face.

Warlock managed to look at them. He put a flat hand to his chin and gestured down with it. _Thank you_.


	3. Keys of Warding and Protection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha I accidentally uploaded this chapter last week to the wrong fic (That tells you just how tired I am atm). But here it is, in context. See you all next week <3

Anathema Device liked to believe that she’d had no expectations of the world after the Apocalypse. However, this was not the case. To go from having every significant moment of your life planned for you to having nothing planned at all was something she was struggling with. And the addition of Newton Pulsifer in her life was not helping.

It wasn’t that Newt was antagonising her, it was just that he made everything in her life that little bit more complicated. She was constantly asking herself if she’d only decided to sleep with him because Agnes had told her to (which was weird enough to think about in itself). Without Agnes to guide her, Anathema had no way of knowing if she was right to keep seeing Newt, or if she should just break it all off then and fly home.

She didn’t have anyone else to talk about it with. There was just Newt. Her family would kill her if they found out she’d burned the second book of prophecy. 

Newt had visited her every day since the Apocalypse. That, in itself, was nice. He’d listen to all of her fears and rantings and when it was all over, he’d ask her what she wanted to do next. It was so strange, just doing whatever she wanted. Some days, she was just happy to have him, to have someone who listened, and he could stay the night. On other days, she was just so angry and confused that she sent him home, only to regret it when she tried to go to sleep and her fears for the future consumed her.

She had to do something, and in her tired, sleep-deprived state all she could think to do was call Newt.

“Hi, I’m just on my way to yours now,” he said as he picked up, “is everything alright?”

“No,” she said, “I just feel . . . lost.” They had this conversation about six times a day. Anathema wondered if Newt regretted letting her burn the book now that she was having an identity crisis on him every day.

“I’ll be there in about 15 minutes,” Newt promised. She hung up.

If Newt hadn’t been so great, then she wouldn’t have had to worry about dumping him and going home, she’d have done it the second the Apocalypse was over. But he was, and there was no book to guide her, no way of knowing if she was making the right decision.

Newt brought her breakfast and an enormous coffee. In the two weeks since Adam had nearly destroyed and then saved the world, Newt had learned that Anathema didn’t sleep well when he wasn’t there. He didn’t push the point, but he always made sure to show up with coffee if he was coming by in the morning.

Anathema took the to-go cup gratefully. She’d never been a coffee-drinker before, but if she was going to make it through the day on little to no sleep, she needed coffee.

“I was thinking,” Newt said.

“That’s never a good sign,” Anathema smiled, her wit was back now that there was coffee in her system.

Newt huffed a laugh, “I was thinking, maybe we should get out of Tadfield for a day, go do something.”

It was so obvious that he was just trying to distract her, but she decided to let him. There was always a chance it would help.

“Actually,” she said, grabbing a book form her desk, “I’ve heard there’s a bookshop in London that had another copy of this.” She held up the book which read, ‘ _Keys to Warding and Protection_ , 1st Edition, by Theodora Busthwaite’ the book was so old it was falling apart in her hands. The Device family had clearly not treated this book with the same reverence with which they had treated ‘The Nice and Accurate Prophecies’.

“Why do you need another one if you have that one?” Newt asked.

“Because there’s a huge stain on the page I need.” Anathema opened the book to the page marked by a frayed ribbon. The stain was huge, the only word Newt could make out was the word ‘Another’ at the very top of the page. “If I can take a photo of the page in another copy then I might be able to use it.”

“And the shop keeper is just going to let you take a photo of a very old and valuable book without buying it?” Newt asked, sceptically, thinking of all the time’s he’d been thrown out of the apple store.

“I can buy it if I have to,” she said, walking over to the door.

“Right,” Newt said, having just remembered how rich Anathema’s family were.

One of Aziraphale’s biggest woes as the owner of the bookshop, was that he did have to have opening hours. It was his least favourite thing to do now more than ever. He had to unentangle himself from Crowley – which was always difficult – and head downstairs where he would be accosted be people with the audacity to think they could simply walk in and take his books. 

Crowley knew how difficult this was for him and tried to make it as easy as possible. He’d been woken up by the shifting weight of Aziraphale leaving the bed but had been careful not to make it too obvious that he was awake. He was sure that, if he opened his eyes, he wouldn’t be able to resist the urge to drag Aziraphale back into bed with him. So he fought back the smile that threatened to give him away as Aziraphale pressed a kiss to his lips before heading down the stairs. 

As soon as Aziraphale had left the room, he was up and dressed with a snap of his fingers. Crowley opened the window and looked out onto the street before carefully lowering himself out the window. It really was a shame Aziraphale wasn’t around to see his heroic stunts.

It was getting on to eleven, most people were already at work, which was why Aziraphale chose that time to open the shop. Crowley walked up the road to the small, family-run bakery that Aziraphale preferred to GAIL’S.

On the walk back, now laden down with an assortment of croissants, Crowley thought about ways to get rid of Aziraphale’s customers. His favourite method, by far, was PDA, but old habits died hard and neither of them were used to the idea of people knowing about their relationship just yet. So that left him with small nuisances, like placing the books people wanted on too-high shelves and keeping Aziraphale engaged in conversation until they gave up and left.

When he got to the shop there was someone trying to decipher the note on Aziraphale’s door that described his opening hours, or lack thereof. 

“Book girl?” What on Earth was she doing here?

“You!” She said back.

“Come inside,” he said, opening the door, the ‘if you dare,’ being implied.

There was only one customer in the shop, and he was easy enough to scare off by letting his demonic energy leak out around him. There was no finesse to that method, but it worked in a pinch.

“Angel!” He called, “You won’t believe who I found outside.”

Whatever Anathema had been expecting, this wasn’t it. Was this how everyone lived? Walking through life blindly and having terrifying coincidences hit you in the face when you least expected them? She sipped the tea that had been placed in front of her by the one in white, trying to make sense of what was going on. She was in a bookshop, run by an angel, the angel who had tried to stop Armageddon, who was having brunch in his shop with the demon who had tried to stop Armageddon. It sounded bizarre even to her.

The angel sat down opposite her and tucked into his food. The demon leant against the bookshelf behind them. Anathema, still a witch/occultist even without Agnes, peered at their auras. She wondered how she could have missed that they weren’t human the first time they’d met. True, she’d had other things to worry about, but it was beyond obvious. 

Their auras matched their aesthetic sensibilities: pale gold for the angel, and a dark, warm, metallic colour with flecks of red for the demon. The most notable thing about their auras was that they blended into each other completely. Most humans, despite not being able to see auras, could sense them. They called it personal space. But the better you knew someone, and the more comfortable you were around them, the better their aura would blend into yours. The Venn diagram of the angel and demon’s auras was a circle.

“So,” the angel said, “to what do we owe the pleasure of this visit?”

Anathema had no idea how to answer that. “Honestly? I was hoping to find a book, my copy was ruined years ago and there’s a page that I need,” she said, deciding the truth was probably the best option.

“Ruined?” the angel asked, “may I see it?”

Shaking slightly, Anathema placed the book on the table.

“Oh dear,” said the angel, leafing through it. “This has certainly seen better days.” He closed the book and looked at it for a long while before tapping it. Anathema stared at the book, the cover was no longer falling off, the stains all around the pages had disappeared.

“Angel,” the demon warned.

“It was barely a miracle, dear, no one will notice,” the angel replied, “pass the teapot.” The demon lifted the teapot and poured the angel a new cup of tea, adding one spoonful of honey which he stirred in. When Anathema had been bothered to imagine what supernatural entities did in their spare time, she had always imagined that they did, well, supernatural things, like existing within storms or creating oases. She had not imagined that they ran bookshops or drank tea.

“Th-thank you,” she said, still rather shaky, “Um, I don’t think I caught either of your names,” she said. This was, of course, because last time they had seen each other the world had been ending and then suddenly not. “I’m Anathema Device,” she added.

“Device! Of course,” the angel said, “descended from John and Virtue Device no doubt. I am Aziraphale, the, erm, former Angel of the Eastern Gate.” Was the angel rambling? Surely angels didn’t ramble. “And this is Crowley, former Serpent of-“

The demon, Crowley, gently put his finger to the angel’s lips. “She’s got it,” he said, pulling his finger away. As he did so, Crowley noticed the book.

“Keys to Warding and Protection?” He said, his eyebrows raised behind his sunglasses.

“I-its just that,” Anathema started, before realising she really needed to take a breath. “It’s just that the, um, other angel and demon seemed to be rather, um.” Anathema paused again, noting the pointed look Aziraphale and Crowley gave each other. “Upset, by what happened. I just wanted to make sure that everyone was safe, and they weren’t going to come back.”

“That’s fair,” Crowley said, “they were definitely angry with us.”

“Indeed they were,” Aziraphale said.

Anathema always knew when a story was going to be good. “What happened?” she asked.

Newt had stopped by his mother’s house after dropping Anathema off in Soho. He was confident that she could handle herself, even if she didn’t think so. By the time he’d found somewhere to park in Soho so he could pick her up, it had already been several hours and he was dreading having to walk all over London trying to find her. He had not expected her to still be in the shop. He had definitely not expected her to be in the shop, drinking tea with the angel and demon from the end of the world.

“Newt!” she said as he entered the shop, “You’ll never believe what’s happened.”

“I think I might,” he said. 

“Crowley and Aziraphale are going to come to Tadfield to help me put up wards.” Anathema was practically vibrating with excitement.

“Crowley will call you next week to arrange a time,” Aziraphale said, smiling kindly at them.

“Thank you both, so much,” Anathema said, walking out the door with Newt in tow.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Newt asked her as soon as they were outside.

“Yes,” said Anathema, it was the first time she had been sure of anything since they’d burned Agnes’ second book. “Heaven and Hell are furious that we stopped the end of the world. I’m not going to wait for them to try and take it away from us.”

Inside the bookshop, a very similar conversation was taking place.

“Angel, are you sure this is a good idea?” Crowley asked, resting his chin on Aziraphale’s shoulder. Neither of them had been brave enough to touch each other while there was a witness around, even if that witness was planning to mess with Heaven and Hell, and the withdrawal symptoms were kicking in.

“No,” Aziraphale replied, “but they did help save the world, so I think we owe it to them to try.” Aziraphale brought a hand up the stroke Crowley’s hair.

“I hate it when you’re right,” Crowley said, leaning into the touch.

“I think that’s quite enough excitement for one day,” Aziraphale said, flicking the sign on the door to ‘closed’ with a gesture.

“I agree,” Crowley said, reluctantly pulling himself upright. “Upstairs?” he said, the slightest hint of teasing in his voice.

“I’d like nothing better,” Aziraphale replied, taking the hand Crowley offered him and following him up the staircase to the bedroom.


	4. The Vegetable Garden

When the world didn’t end, Crowley had been certain he’d never return to Tadfield even if his life depended on it (maybe if Aziraphale’s life depended on it). His instincts screamed at him to turn around as the Bentley approached the quiet village. There was a sharp intake of breath to his left.

“You alright, angel?” he asked.

“I just feel a little strange being back here, it’s nothing really,” Aziraphale said. Crowley knew Aziraphale was more worried that he was letting on. They both were. It was entirely likely that one or both of their former sides were keeping an eye on the antichrist who was no longer the antichrist, and just the slightest hint of that idea had them too tense to reach across the centre console to touch each other. Crowley hated it; he’d gotten used to driving with Aziraphale resting his hand on his thigh or (if Aziraphale was distracted enough not to point out how dangerous it was) with their fingers laced together. Going without it made Crowley feel cold despite the sun blistering down on them through the windshield. 

“Crowley, pull over, they’re right here, look,” Aziraphale said.

And so they were. Anathema Device, along with her boyfriend who wasn’t her boyfriend (that was how she had described the situation in Aziraphale’s shop anyway, not in those exact words, but Crowley could read between the lines), and what looked like a small army of children that included the antichrist.

Crowley pulled over and parked the Bentley, he still couldn’t shake the feeling that everything was about to go wrong. Was he shell-shocked from Armageddon? Potentially. He was definitely still pretty fucked up from the so-called ‘War to End All Wars’ and that hadn’t been served with a side of nearly losing Aziraphale.

“Hi,” he said, injecting as much bravado into his voice as he possibly could. He could feel Aziraphale’s presence right behind him. They both had a lot to answer for when it came to these humans, he’d rather they had a go at him than his angel.

“You’re here,” Anathema said, like she hadn’t expected them to come. And perhaps she hadn’t, even after their phone conversation the previous afternoon. Crowley supposed that made sense, she’d probably expected them to fuck off back to where they’d come from after Armageddon.

Crowley just raised his eyebrows at her, as if to say, ‘we were invited’. He took a moment to survey them all. Two adults and four extremely muddy children standing around what, to the untrained eye, looked like a square of dirt and mud. “Just doing some gardening?” he asked them.

Two of the four children refused to meet his eyes. The ones that did, the antichrist and the girl, looked at him defensively, standing between him and the other children in a way that was not unlike the way he was standing in front of Aziraphale.

“What’s it to you?” the girl said. Crowley liked her immediately.

“Pepper!” The antichrist admonished.

“What?” she said, rising to the challenge. 

“Just, be careful.” The antichrist was watching Crowley and Aziraphale closely. They all were. Crowley really didn’t like the feeling of being watched. He needed to come up with a plan. Right.

“Angel,” he murmured, “you sort out the angelic magic stuff with the witch, I’ll stay here with the witchfinder and watch the kids. We can swap later if we need to.”

“Certainly.” Aziraphale offered him a small smile. Crowley would have given anything for the chance to drag Aziraphale back to the car and speed of to the bookshop where they were safe and they could touch without fear of being watched.

“Right.” Crowley surveyed the square of mud. Sure enough he could see small mounds and holes where things had been buried. “So, what are you planting?”

The kids all looked at the antichrist, who said, “A vegetable garden.”

Crowley looked at it properly, stretching his senses out at it: The garden was growing, at the normal slow way gardens grew.

“It’s going to take a while,” he told them, “Have you tried taking a cutting of something that had already been grown? You’d have food a lot faster.”

The kids clearly hadn’t been expecting him to say that. “What do you mean?” The antichrist asked.

“You can take bits off a living tree and plant them in the ground, it’s faster than waiting for seeds to sprout,” he told them.

“Show us,” the antichrist said (Adam! That was his name) and it was an order. Adam was clearly used to being in charge. Still, Crowley couldn’t see any harm.

“Any good trees nearby?” he asked them.

“Actually,” said the kid with glasses, “Mr Tyler’s apple trees are just over there.” As soon as the child realised what he’d said he clamped a hand over his mouth.

Apple trees, huh? Crowley smirked. Still he didn’t want the kids to be scared of him, that wouldn’t help anyone, especially if Anathema was right and Tadfield did need protecting. “Well, you wouldn’t be the first Adam I’ve helped steal an apple,” he joked.

“Adam doesn’t need help,” Pepper piped up, “he steals them all the time.” Crowley gave Adam a better appraisal.

“Good,” he said, “now let’s try and steal a tree.”

From some way away, Aziraphale watched as Crowley encouraged larceny with a fond smile on his face.

“So I was thinking, it makes the most sense to cast a protective circle around Tadfield, but I’m not sure how well human magic will do against . . .” Anathema trailed off.

“It’s a double-edged sword that, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale told her, “human magic seems to flip between very effective and not effective at all depending on a whole host of variables.”

“So what would you do?”

“I would still cast the circle,” he said, “but I would find some way to tie it to Adam instead of yourself.”

“Adam? Isn’t he back to normal now?” Anathema said, looking over at where the kids seemed to be sawing off a tree branch.

“No,” Aziraphale said, “he still seems to have some control over the nature of reality. I could sense his imprint all over Tadfield as we arrived, it’s every bit as strong as it was the first time I was here.”

“Really?” Anathema inspected Aziraphale, “What does it feel like?”

Aziraphale looked down and smiled. “Love,” he said, “it covers everything, anywhere that Adam considers to be part of his home already has some level of protection, it’s simply a matter of adding our own elements to it.”

Back at the vegetable garden, Crowley, aided by Brian and Pepper, lowered the stolen apple branch into a hole Adam, Wensleydale, and Dog had dug. Once it was in, Crowley leant in close and gave it a once over.

“Listen here,” he told the tree, “I am going to come back here and you are going to have sprouted roots. I don’t take excuses and I will make you regret it if I see so much as a spot on you. Clear? Good.”

“Excuse me,” said Adam, “are you threatening a tree?”

“Just making sure it knows what’s expected of it,” Crowley said, giving the tree another glare. 

“Does that work?” Asked Wensleydale.

“Usually,” Crowley said. “I’ll bring one of my plants up here next time, should scare yours into behaving.” Crowley’s plants had not been neglected by his decision to spend more time at Aziraphale’s. Instead, Crowley was slowly migrating them across to the bookstore and waiting for Aziraphale to comment on it.

Adam’s eyes snapped across to where Aziraphale and Anathema were approaching. Crowley saw the kid tense slightly as they did.

“He isn’t going to try and shoot you again,” Crowley told him, “In fact, 50 pounds says he’ll apologise to you before the end of the day.”

“Would it have worked?” Adam asked, “Shooting me?”

“Probably,” Crowley said, “but your way of doing things was better.”

“Adam!” Brian called, “Anathema’s got chocolate!” A significant portion of said chocolate was all over Brian’s face, but that had never stopped him before.

Crowley watched the Them race at Anathema, who had clearly assumed the position of purveyor of sweets. He walked towards them (or did the vague approximation of walking that he always did, anyway) slowly, he wasn’t in a rush. 

He grinned to himself as he watched Aziraphale lean over and say something to Adam. When he came over Adam said. “I guess I owe you 50 pounds now.”

He might have been a (retired) demon, but he was better than taking money from kids.

“Nah, we never decided who was betting on what, so we can decide you won,” Crowley handed Adam a £50 note that hadn’t existed until that very moment.

Adam looked like he’d just won the lottery. £50, to a child, is worth somewhere around a thousand pound to an adult, after all.

Aziraphale made a tutting noise behind him.

“What?” Crowley said, the picture of innocence.

Aziraphale let out an exasperated sigh (a sound Crowley was deeply familiar with after 6023 years) and led Crowley away from the group. “I might have come up with a way to protect Tadfield. Adam’s power is still all over the place, and I think there might be a way to use it.”

“So he still has his powers?” Crowley was confused.

“Not like he did at the end of the world, but a little bit, yes,” Aziraphale said. “I’m going to have to do a bit more research, but I think it’s possible.”

“Well,” Crowley said, “I did promise them I’d come back.”

“And it is safe here, we’re safe here, aren’t we?” Aziraphale said, his eyebrows pinched together with anxiety.

“You know what, angel?” Crowley said, seeing Adam gesturing them over, “I think we are.”

Crowley offered his hand out to Aziraphale, who only hesitated a moment before taking it.

“Did you help those children steal a tree?” Aziraphale asked, only the slightest hint of accusation in his voice as they walked back to everyone.

“Not really, it’s more like I helped them pirate a tree, or clone it.” He said, knowing that he had definitely helped the Them steal a tree.


	5. Ma'moul

For about a week, life seemed to return to some semblance of normal. After all, they had a job to do. Admittedly, trying to find a way to harness the antichrist’s powers to protect a small town outside London was nothing like the kind of work Heaven or Hell had assigned them, but it was something to do, and Aziraphale relished it.

Crowley tried to relish it. It didn’t work. Something about it all just felt off. Or rather, more ‘off’ than everything else, because in a world where you’ve lost your job and finally hooked up with your crush of six millennia, just about everything is bound to feel a bit odd. He didn’t quite have a word for it other than ‘antsy’.

What probably didn’t help was that Aziraphale hadn’t looked up from his book for 48 hours. Yes, Crowley had counted. Yes, he knew that was a bit pathetic. But that had never stopped him before. He’d already gone back to his flat and berated his plants a bit before bringing some of the better ones he was sure weren’t going to embarrass him with nonsense like leaf spots or wilting to the bookstore, bringing them in once he was certain Aziraphale was too absorbed in his book to notice him carrying an enormous fiddle-leaf fig tree across the threshold.

He’d kept Aziraphale supplied with tea, but after the 24-hour mark he’d switched to cocoa in the hopes that Aziraphale’s corporation would feel the loss of the small dose of caffeine and call it a day.

It was just that Crowley knew this wasn’t an area he could help much with. Sure, he understood how demonic miracles worked and he sort of knew what Aziraphale was going to need him to do. But the specifics of it, the way demonic, angelic, and human magic might all interact, was the sort of thing Aziraphale knew, not him.

He was wiling the time away by reading a few of Aziraphale’s misprinted bibles when inspiration struck about halfway through Exodus.

“Angel, I’m going out for a bit, OK?” He received a distracted hum in response. 

It wasn’t that he was jealous of Aziraphale’s love for his books. He’d given most of them to him, for pity’s sake. But he had hoped that their grace period, where they hadn’t had to worry about anything occult or ethereal, would have lasted longer. It felt like they had been thrown back onto the real world without any warning and suddenly they had to deal with their issues and the issues of the world beyond them.

It took Crowley longer than he would have liked to find everything he wanted in Soho. Apparently orange blossom water wasn’t something they stocked at Tesco or Sainsbury’s. But he managed to get everything together before the supermarkets had become filled with people doing their shopping on the way home from work. He’d even left a few unpleasant surprises for anyone who decided they wanted a tin of ‘man-sized’ soup for dinner. He may have been retired, but he still had a sense of humour. Besides, a little chaos was bad for the soul.

On the ground floor of the bookshop, hidden behind an impressive looking shelf that featured encyclopaedias with errors that Aziraphale found amusing, was a small kitchenette. It had originally been a smart Victorian kitchen with a cast iron everything, but even a luddite, like Aziraphale was wont to be on occasion, could see that modern kitchens were vastly superior. 

Crowley frowned at the fancy Japanese knife set he was supposed to be using. The last time he had made this it had been with a flint knife and he had used a pot-hearth to bake in. And of course, the newer versions of the dish had been modernised and had lost a lot of the nostalgic flavour of the original dish.

He’d made this dish countless times when he’d been posing as a shopkeeper in Egypt, before Aziraphale had shown up with Moses and he’d had to leave. The secret was to save a few of the chopped walnuts from the filling and to grind them into the pastry. Also to use milk instead of water to make the pastry. 

He spooned the chopped figs and walnuts mixed with cinnamon sugar and orange blossom water into the shells of dough. Before pinching them closed and putting them in the oven, which had not been preheated but had the sense to jump to 180 degrees Celsius when Crowley put the tray in.

There were perks to cooking with miracles, such as being able to clean the kitchen with a snap of one’s fingers. But Crowley had to be careful not to use anywhere the food might see it. Food that had been in contact with miracles, demonic or otherwise, always tasted just a little bit wrong: If it was Crowley cooking, part of it would burn or taste burnt even if he hadn’t used any sort of heating or fire; and if it was Aziraphale, everything became overly sweet, to the point where it was reminiscent of those weird sugar sculptures Charles II had tried to pass off as food. 

This was a large part of why Crowley and Aziraphale preferred to by their food, where they could be certain it hadn’t had any contact with the miraculous until it was on their forks. But traditional ma’moul were not the sort of thing you could just pop up the street and buy in London (though the modern Lebanese version was certainly good, it just wasn’t the same). 

Crowley was planning to kill two birds with one stone: 1) actually eat the thing he’d been wanting to eat for the last 100 years or so and 2) distract Aziraphale with the one thing that always worked, food.

It was not unlike the time Aziraphale had found a tear in a Tsujigahana tapestry he’d bought on one of his trips to Japan that hadn’t officially happened and had gone to find someone to mend it only to discover that the methods had been lost to time. He had been very excited by the artist, Itchiku Kubota, who had found a way to re-create the effect in 1962, but it still wasn’t the same.

While Crowley was thinking about all this, he failed to realise that the tea towel that was folded onto the door of the oven, had flipped inside the oven. He did, however, notice when the tea towel caught on fire.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Crowley said, pulling the on-fire tea towel out of the oven. He double checked that the oven door was closed at the ma’moul weren’t looking before he miracled the fire and burns on his hands away. Fuck. That better not have ruined the food.

Crowley heard a rustle from the other side of the door. Aziraphale must have finished the book. It had been one of those large tomes that looked like someone had tried to make a book out of bricks. Crowley would be happy to see the back of it.

“Crowley?” He heard Aziraphale say.

“In here,” he said, quickly putting the pastries on a plate. This was not the Ritz, he reminded himself, it was perfectly alright for the plating to look like it had just been thrown together.

“Oh my, I was wondering what that delightful smell was,” Aziraphale said and Crowley most definitely did not blush as he pushed the plate across to him.

Aziraphale bit into the ma’moul, the short pastry crumbling into his mouth. He made a sound that wouldn’t have been out of place in their bedroom. “This is delightful.”

Crowley narrowed his eyes and inspected Aziraphale, making sure he wasn’t just saying that because he felt like he had to. Crowley didn’t take one for himself until Aziraphale was halfway through his second. And thank Someone, it was the taste he remembered, which meant he could stop trying to make it.

“Any luck with the research?” Crowley asked once Aziraphale had finished the plate.

“Nothing concrete,” Aziraphale replied, “it’s not as though there’s been an antichrist before so there isn’t exactly a lot to go off.” Aziraphale changed the topic abruptly, “where were those from again?”

“Egypt,” Crowley said, “the time with the plagues.”

Aziraphale hummed and licked his index finger where some fig and walnut had stuck. Crowley’s corporation forgot how to breathe. The choking sound that resulted from that made Aziraphale chuckle slightly.

“I was thinking, you know, about Rome,” he said.

“Which time,” Crowley replied, they had spent an awful lot of time in Rome, after all.

“1527,” Aziraphale said, “you nearly got hit by a cannonball.”

Oh. That time. Crowley remembered. “Why were there cannons again?” he asked.

“Can’t recall,” Aziraphale said, that wasn’t what was important anyway. “I’d always worried that cannonball had hit you. You were so dazed afterwards.”

Crowley prepared to groan. He remembered it vividly: Aziraphale had grabbed his arm to pull him out of the way and he’d been so surprised that he hadn’t managed to form a cohesive thought for several days afterwards.

“You know,” Aziraphale continued, aware of Crowley’s internal monologue, “every time I think I’ve thought of every time I should have realised that you loved me and I you, I think of a new one. It’s certainly an enjoyable pastime.”

Crowley was about to devolve into his embarrassed rendition of his patented syllable soup when he thought of something. “Hang on. Weren’t you supposed to be doing your research or whatever?”

It was Aziraphale’s turn to look embarrassed. “I was,” he said indignantly.

Crowley scoffed, “Was the book about Rome in 1527?”

“Well, no.” Aziraphale admitted. “But I had to do something to distract myself from how poorly written it was. I mean, really, I’d rather read Victor Hugo imitating Chaucer while waxing poetic about the Paris sewer system.”

Wow. That must have been bad.

“Tell you what,” Crowley said generously, “I’ll drop it if you promise me you won’t do any more research tomorrow.”

Aziraphale frowned, “But I told Anathema I’d-“

“Daydream over books?” Crowley cut him off.

“Very well. What did you have in mind?”

Right. If Crowley was being honest with himself, he hadn’t thought he’d get this far. Of course, he’d always planned to ask Aziraphale on a date. He’d done it plenty of times. But he’d always left the ‘date’ part implied. Or even off altogether. Go- Sa- Somebody! Why was this so difficult?

“We-we could, er, go for a picnic?” Aziraphale had been the one to suggest that after all, even if it was 52 years ago.

There was no mistaking the way Aziraphale’s face lit up. “Did you make delicious treats to lure me away from my books so you could ask me on a date, you wily old thing?”

“No!” Crowley lied out of habit, “I just couldn’t find ma’moul anywhere so I thought I’d make some and-“ Crowley realised he was being ridiculous. 

“Sorry,” he said, “habit. Yes.”

“Well I’d love to!” Aziraphale smiled at Crowley from across the kitchen counter.

“Sorry,” Crowley said again. How was it that Aziraphale managed to draw these apologies out of him? For anyone else, getting Crowley to apologise was like drawing blood from a stone.

“My dear, I quite understand. Old habits die hard, as they say. The best thing we can do is form new, better habits over the top of them.” Aziraphale said, and that was all the warning Crowley got before he was pulled into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the recipe for ma’moul from the lovely cashier at my local fruit shop. He also directed me to this pdf where it is possible to learn a lot about ancient Egyptian cuisine. https://www.academia.edu/6793273/Kitchen_tools_in_ancient_Egypt


	6. The Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pear tart is really easy to make (it’s my grandma’s recipe) slide a pear thinly over puff pastry, leaving an edge like a pizza crust, then go over it with whatever your favourite jam is (water it down by heating it up and adding some white wine or water). Bake at 200 degrees C until the pastry around the edges puffs up. Give it a try <3

“You know,” Aziraphale said, stretching out a hand to brush a few dandelion seeds out of Crowley’s hair, “I think we are getting better at this.”

“At what?” Crowley asked, leaning into Aziraphale’s touch.

“This.” Aziraphale made his point by scratching Crowley’s scalp absentmindedly. “Not being afraid of being seen together.”

“You aren’t scared?”

“Of course I am, but I’m learning not to be. Besides, I’ve allowed my fear to hold me back long enough.” Aziraphale smiled and Crowley could see him using his happiness to gather courage as he moved forward to claim Crowley for a kiss.

It was a lazy sort of kiss, the kind that is reminiscent of a Summer breeze at dusk, the exact sort of breeze that had just miraculously struck up around the two of them, though neither was sure who was responsible for it. Had the ducks of St James Park not been distracted by the disturbing lack of crumbs being thrown to them, they might have noticed the odd poetry of it all. 

Crowley only pulled away to top up their champagne, a particularly splendid Pommery D’Apanage, and to offer him a slice of the particularly resplendent pear tart Crowley had managed to procure. It was so delicious that even Crowley had gone back for seconds.

Aziraphale accepted the slice of tart and they sat in comfortable silence until Aziraphale chuckled slightly under his breath.

What’s so funny?” Crowley asked, sprawling over their picnic blanket so he could lie on his front and rest his chin in his hands.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, his smug bastard grin settling on his face, “I was just thinking about the expression my former colleagues would have made if they’d seen this.” Aziraphale gestured around at the picnic and themselves.

“What, like if Gabriel was watching us from across the park or something?” Crowley said, fighting down a laugh. Gabriel’s expression would have been priceless. 

“Precisely,” Aziraphale said, finishing the last of the pear tart. “He’d stand right over there.” Aziraphale gestured a few feet away, “and he would drop whatever he was holding in shock.”

“Hah!” Crowley laughed at that. He could picture it too. There was something very soothing about picturing the Archangel Gabriel in a deeply uncomfortable situation, something that probably had something to do with ‘shut your stupid mouth and die already’.

And in moments they were both laughing. It lacked the hysteria of their laughter on the night after the apocalypse didn’t happen, but it was that same sort of laughter, the kind that makes you appreciate being one of the only two people in the world to get the joke.

“Shall we head back to the bookshop?” Crowley asked once he’d caught his breath. 

“Certainly,” Aziraphale said, cleaning up their picnic with a snap of his fingers. He certainly wasn’t going to waste time packing things up the human way, not when he could be holding Crowley’s hand on the way back to the car.

“That was absolutely lovely, my dear,” Aziraphale said, hanging up his coat as they entered the bookshop. He could feel Crowley’s gaze following him even with the sunglasses on. 

“Glad you enjoyed it,” Crowley said, his cheeks reddening slightly.

“Care for a nightcap?” he asked.

“’Course,” Crowley replied.

“What was it like? Hell?” Aziraphale asked suddenly, pouring them each a glass of the remaining champagne.

“You’ve been there, you know,” Crowley said, avoiding the question.

“They didn’t exactly give me the grand tour, my dear, but if you don’t want to talk about it, then we can discuss something else.” Crowley looked at the book Aziraphale had open on his desk, expecting it to be Dante’s  _ Divine Comedy _ or something equally cliché. But instead it was what looked like a large history textbook,  _ Viking Identities: Scandinavian Jewellery in England _ by Jane F Kershaw.

“Nah, s’fine. What do you want to know?” Crowley said, curious to see where this was going.

“I was wondering - oh this is going to sound terrible – but you mentioned, once or twice that your belongings didn’t survive your visits.”

Ah. That explained it. “Is this about Ingrid’s glasses?”

The last time Aziraphale had seen Ingrid’s glasses (as Crowley had always referred to them), Crowley had managed to scare Aziraphale more than Aziraphale would ever have admitted at the time. It was the lowest Aziraphale had ever seen him, Kinclaven Castle and later at Westminster. Crowley liked to blame the 14 th Century for everything that had happened then, but Aziraphale had always suspected that his sadness had begun then. So he just nodded.

“Hastur decided he didn’t like me wearing my glasses when I didn’t need to. He thought it’d be fun to see if they could survive being thrown into a lake of boiling sulphur. Spoiler alert: they couldn’t.” 

Sure, Crowley’s tone was care-free, but there was an edge to it, a degree of defensiveness that Aziraphale could just make out in the way he didn’t breathe between the words, just pausing to make a point.

Aziraphale wanted to reach his hand out to comfort Crowley, but he wasn’t sure he’d do it right. Neither angels nor demons tended to touch each other, and Aziraphale hadn’t quite figured out when it was the right time to do so, at least in this context. 

“I stopped taking things I was attached to down there after that.” Crowley said, silence, as always, forced him to continue speaking.

“Yes, you still have quite a few belongings from Leonardo that I could see,” Aziraphale said, deciding that Crowley didn’t need to answer every question he had about Hell right that second. Aziraphale much preferred to tease Crowley anyway.

“Ye-“ Crowley froze when he saw the mischievous expression on Aziraphale’s face. “No.” He groaned.

“You did leave me there after you went to the bookshop, did you really think I wasn’t going to notice?” Aziraphale was having quite a bit of fun now.

Crowley groaned again and slid slightly off his chair, covering his face with his hands. Aziraphale could just make out the words “Bloody Salaì!”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware Il Salaìno had made parodies of ‘The Wrestlers’,” Aziraphale said primly.

“He didn’t. He only made one. The little shit,” Crowley said, coming up for air.

“And you kept it because . . . ?” Aziraphale enjoyed watching Crowley stammer as he tried to come up with an excuse.

“I-it wass a gift,” Crowley said, eventually, “I decided I was going to sstart the evil tradition of not letting people throw away giftss they didn’t want.”

Aziraphale hummed sceptically at him.

“Sshut up,” Crowley barked, “I’m sure you have worse things in here, just because I’m not bothered to go through every single book.”

“No, you’ll just put a sculpture of us ‘wrestling’ on display at the end of a corridor.” Aziraphale laughed.

“I,” Crowley said in his scary demon voice, “am going to find a book you have that’s worse and when I do-“

“Oh yes, I’m sure I’ll be very sorry,” Aziraphale chuckled.

Crowley slumped back down into his chair. Aziraphale waited for his expression to relax, as if to say, ‘at least that’s over’, before playing his final card.

“Also, was that the lectern from the church during the Blitz?”

Crowley fell out of his chair.

* * *

Much later that night, Aziraphale was awake, reading in the dark (not something he would recommend to anyone without supernaturally enhanced vision). Or at least, pretending to read, and being utterly distracted by the soft rise and fall of Crowley’s corporation’s chest as he slept. Aziraphale was not one for sleep, though, if he was being honest, he had only tried to do so a few times. But one thing he did appreciate about spending his nights like this, was that it gave him an excuse to do nothing. Well not nothing, exactly, but nothing that involved moving from his exact spot. So he could read his books, look out the window, and spend an inordinate amount of time enjoying the way Crowley’s brow lost all of its animosity while he slept.

He had tried to move once. Once being the operative word. But Crowley, even in human form, was rather adept at winding himself around Aziraphale to the point where it would have taken a skilled surgeon to separate the two. Aziraphale was always reluctant to wake Crowley, so he’d simply decided that he wasn’t going to move until Crowley woke up.

It was true that he had picked up the book he was currently reading because of Ingrid. He had never actually met her (and looking back he could see that he had been, just a bit, jealous of her), but Crowley had somehow managed to have rather excellent taste in friends. Considering Leonardo da Vinci and William Shakespeare, Ingrid was in excellent company. He would ask Crowley about her work, but not until after he was informed on the topic. It simply wouldn’t do to go into such a discussion without knowledge.

It was a shame that Crowley had missed meeting his human friends during his century long nap and their subsequent falling out. But perhaps Aziraphale would never have gone and befriended those people if he’d had Crowley for company. It had been loneliness that had led him to attend the Gentlemen’s Club, and through that, Oscar Wilde and his friends. It was probably a good thing, really, that Crowley had slept through it all. After all, Aziraphale never would have become as involved as he was with one specific community of humanity had he not sought refuge in the Gentlemen’s Club.

There was an unusual buzzing noise that startled Aziraphale out of his reverie. It’s source was the mobile telephone on the bedside table next to Crowley. Very few people had that particular phone number, and fewer still used it (Aziraphale always preferred to call Crowley’s landline).

“Crowley,” he whispered, gently shaking him. Crowley did not respond. Aziraphale shook him slightly harder, but all that accomplished was Crowley latching onto him more tightly. Aziraphale sighed, desperate times and all that.

Aziraphale pulled power from Heaven to make a quick blessing, and pressed his palm to Crowley’s back.

“Fuck!” Crowley jumped out of the bed, but due to the way he had twisted the covers around himself, he was dragged onto the floor. Crowley glared at Aziraphale accusatorially before noticing his phone.

Crowley picked it up and made a swiping motion at the screen before putting the device to his ear.

“Hello?” He said.

Aziraphale could hear the other line, but it was just the sound of bumps and static. He looked over at Crowley who was frowning in confusion.

“Hello?” Crowley said again.

And then it came, the softest, but achingly familiar call of “Help.”

Before Aziraphale had even registered what was happening, Crowley had snapped his fingers to dress them and taken his hand.

“We’ll be right there,” Crowley promised the phone before pulling both himself and Aziraphale through the telephone signal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened during the strategically placed time skip can be found in Brave New Smut, the Explicit accompaniment to this story, which you do not have to read if you don't want to, all plot stuff happens here


	7. The Other End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter involves a person being kicked out of home for being trans. The actual kicking out is not shown, but the aftermath is. If you would prefer not to read any of that, please don’t stress yourself unduly by reading this chapter. Also, sorry it’s so short, I couldn’t stop crying. I just wanna live out my fantasies of saving all my precious friends from their shitty parents. Is that too much to ask?

Crowley had barely thought as he’d pulled himself and Aziraphale through the phone line. Maybe, if he’d taken a moment to think, he might have warned the person on the other end of the phone that this was what he intended to do. Maybe then, when they had come through the phone, they wouldn’t have come out in someone’s hand, and that someone might not have fallen over.

Crowley had seen Warlock fall over plenty of times, more than either of them could count. Of course, that had been quite a few years ago, before Warlock had mastered control over his limbs (something Crowley had never done himself). But this time was something different. Warlock stayed down, sitting in the grime that Park Road had gathered over thousands of years. That wasn’t normal, it wasn’t right. If there was one thing Crowley could say for the kid, it was that he always bounced back.

“Warlock?” As soon as Crowley was standing again, he raced over to the kid. He leant down and peered up at Warlock’s face and his heart broke. As soon as Crowley had come close enough Warlock had attached himself to Crowley like a limpet, holding on for dear life as sobs wracked his body.

Crowley had always hated the way Warlock cried. Not because of anything Warlock had done, but because it was absolutely silent. When Warlock was scared, or sad, or upset, it was always his first instinct to become as small and un-noticeable as possible. It was an instinct Crowley had tried to fight as Nanny Ashtoreth, from her first day with him. But there were some wounds even supernatural entities couldn’t heal, and it would have taken a lot longer than the six years they had spent with Warlock to even begin to do so.

Crowley met Aziraphale’s confused gaze and shrugged as best he could with Warlock clinging to him. Aziraphale rolled his eyes and mouthed, ‘hug back, you idiot.’

Right, yeah. Hug back. Crowley could do that. He wound his arms around the crying kid. Something was definitely really wrong. Warlock never left Winfield House without a plethora of armed guards, and true, they weren’t even half a mile away from the house, but even then. Even to go to school or a play date, he’d been accompanied by CIA agents. Who didn’t do a damn thing to the little shits who tore Warlock town with their stupid competitions and comparisons, let alone defend an eleven-year-old from the bullshitery that was the Dowlings.

“Warlock, dear,” Aziraphale said, sitting beside them. They probably made a right sight, sitting on the kerb by Park Road at two in the morning. “What happened?”

Warlock tried to choke back a sob. “One minute,” he signed, his hands going back to gripping Crowley as soon as he was done. Crowley didn’t stop him, if Warlock needed someone to steady him, Crowley was happy to be it, even if he did question the kid’s taste.

“Take as much time as you need,” Aziraphale said, gingerly patting Warlock’s shoulder. Being the gardener and not the nanny, Aziraphale had never been as physically close to Warlock, nor was he one for touch that came from anyone but Crowley, really. But Aziraphale knew Warlock needed reassurance, and could put his own issues aside if it meant helping.

Warlock didn’t stop crying. But he didn’t have to, he slowly pulled his arms away from Crowley (Crowley was very grateful that his corporation didn’t need to breathe) and began to sign.

“I can’t go home. I can’t.” Warlock signed, emphatically pulling an invisible string down from his nose to show he couldn’t. He began to breathe faster, like he was running a marathon. Crowley tried to think of some way to keep Warlock from continuing his panic attack.

“We aren’t going to make you go back,” Crowley said, hoping he’d be able to keep that promise.

Warlock let out a deep breath then, some of the tension draining from his body. He turned to look at Crowley and signed.

“Can I be like you?” Crowley frowned before remembering BSL didn’t have a conditional tense. “Could I be like you?”

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale said, apparently also confused.

Warlock pointed to himself, then made an ‘x’ with his hands before waving them out either side, then brushed his chin with his index finger.

“I am not a boy.”

“Neither are we, technically speaking,” Crowley said. Despite his calm outward appearance, he did understand the gravity of the situation. He’d certainly had encounters with humans who didn’t appreciate his gender fuckery before. Those humans had had very bad days afterwards, but Warlock didn’t have the power to do that. 

“Did you-“ Aziraphale began, but he stopped as Warlock began to sign again.

“I tried to tell them,” Warlock said, gesturing back in the direction of Winfield House for them.

Aziraphale winced. Crowley realised that was what Aziraphale had been afraid of. He knew Aziraphale had spent a lot of time comforting those who had been disinherited for similar reasons. Especially in the 1980s. On the rare occasion Crowley had managed to get a hold of Aziraphale during that decade, he’d been haggard and exhausted. He was almost certain that Aziraphale was personally responsible for the boom of take-away food during that era.

“Right,” Aziraphale said, “let’s get you somewhere safe.”

Crowley cracked a small smile when he saw his faithful car parked in front of them. The Bentley always knew when it was needed. He opened the back-seat door for Warlock and the passenger side for Aziraphale. He had a feeling they were in for a long night.

Warlock didn’t say anything as they drove back to Soho. That in itself wasn’t surprising. Unless it was about something Warlock was particularly interested in, the kid didn’t tend to say much. 

Crowley kept a close eye on Warlock as Aziraphale busied himself in the kitchen making cocoa. Warlock wasn’t crying anymore. Crowley wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing.

“So,” Aziraphale said, setting a mug of cocoa before Warlock, “have you thought about how you’d like to be referred as?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes internally. The kid had been through enough. There was no need to stress Warlock further. Pronouns, especially in a language as poorly cobbled together as English could be a nightmare.

“I don’t know,” Warlock signed. “What do you mean?”

“Well, until now, I imagine people have referred to you using he/him pronouns. For example, saying, ‘look at him, there he goes’. But you have other options. Not so much in BSL, because pronouns are pointing but . . .” Aziraphale rambled.

“You mean like she?” Warlock said, speaking for the first time since whispering ‘help’ into the phone.

“Exactly,” Aziraphale said, every part the doting teacher. “Would you like us to call you she?”

Warlock frowned and nodded slowly. “Why is this so easy for you? Why didn’t they-“ Warlock cut herself off before she started crying again.

“Humanity’s relationship with gender is a bit different to ours. You see, humans have this wonderful ability to create categories and labels for things. It’s how you know something is a chair even if you’ve never seen it before, you look for clues, like shape and material, and figure it out. But, unfortunately, humans tend to make mistakes when they decide to categorise other people. Only one person gets to tell you who you are and how you feel and that’s you.” Aziraphale spoke softly. Crowley knew that he’d seen other people in this exact situation thousands of times. He’d always supported the humans who refused to let anyone tell them who they were, it had been one of the things that had always given Crowley hope. “There are millions of people who don’t feel like they fit in the category they were put in, and there’s nothing wrong with deciding that you want to be in a different one. Or to make a new one entirely, for that matter.”

Crowley wondered how many times Aziraphale had had to give that speech. It was not in his angel’s nature to be at the forefront of any sort of movement, political or otherwise, but with these ones, he had been in the background. Always willing to listen to those who needed to be heard, to hand out food and comfort just like he had done with Moses and his people as they had left Egypt. Crowley knew he hadn’t seen God, not really, since before time had begun. But if She was still around, then it was in those gestures, the love that joined people in a community where they could support and care for each other, even when no one else in the world did.

Just like old times, Crowley had tucked Warlock into bed, in a bedroom that the bookshop had quickly put together in what had once been a storeroom.

“We’ll just be through there if you need us,” Crowley promised, gesturing across to his and Aziraphale’s bedroom, making a mental note to miracle himself some pyjamas. He didn’t leave the room until Warlock was fast asleep, sleep that Crowley might have helped along with a minor demonic miracle.

By the time he came downstairs the sun was beginning to rise over London. He joined Aziraphale at his desk.

“We can’t keep her,” Aziraphale said.

“I didn’t say anyth-“

“But you were thinking it.”

“Maybe,” Crowley grumbled.

“We don’t sleep or eat or have anything resembling the sort of lifestyle a child needs. Especially a child that has been treated as cruelly as Warlock,” Aziraphale said finally.

He was right. Crowley knew he was right. They’d done a pretty crappy job looking over the kid so far. They probably shouldn’t add to the damage.

“So what do we do?” He asked.

“We wait.” Aziraphale said. “And we see if the Dowlings decide to do anything. And if Warlock doesn’t want to go back, then we find some humans to help us.”

“You can’t mean Anathema and her witchfinder? They aren’t even a quarter of a century old,” Crowley said.

“I wasn’t thinking of them,” Aziraphale said, but he didn’t meet Crowley’s eyes.

“The who did you mean? Shadwell and that psychic woman? Because you’ve got another thing coming if you think-“

“No, Crowley,” Aziraphale cut him off. “But humans have their own systems for dealing with this sort of situation, we can’t just –“ Aziraphale cut himself off, his eyes widening in realisation.

“We can interfere, can’t we?” Aziraphale said, lighting up in a way that made Crowley’s hear lurch. “We’re on our own side.”

Crowley, remembering that he could, leant over and kissed Aziraphale gently. “We can. And we have humans who can help. Hell, we have the antichrist.”

“We still can’t keep her.” Aziraphale said sternly, but there was a softness to his voice.

“No, but we can make sure she goes somewhere safe.”

They watched the day dawn over London. People ran about their business, no more aware of the retired angel and demon that looked over their city with fondness than they were of the end of the world.

Upstairs, in her demonically influenced sleep, Warlock dreamed of some place small and cosy, unlike the wide empty halls of Winfield house. Somewhere where, when you called out, someone actually came running.


	8. Pepper's mum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> has got it going on

Until yesterday, Warlock had never been in the Bentley before, despite having seen it many times. She hadn’t realised how much of a blessing that was until she was made to experience Crowley driving to Tadfield at peak hour.

The morning had started out well enough, she’d woken up to find a wardrobe that hadn’t existed the previous night filled with all sorts of clothes. Aziraphale had tutted when he saw it.

“Shouldn’t we be getting her clothes the human way?” he’d said.

“Sure,” Crowley had replied, “If you can find a department store open at six-thirty in the morning. Besides, if you buy clothes now the money just goes to some corrupt CEO who hoards all the money by not paying the people making the clothes a living wage, or even at all sometimes. But sure, if you think your angelic conscience could handle it, go ahead.”

Aziraphale had murmured something under his breath that Warlock couldn’t make out. But she was sure it wasn’t flattering.

While Crowley had been out getting them breakfast, she’d made the mistake of checking her phone. There was one missed call from her mom, one voice message.

The panic that she’d managed to push away last night reared its head again. She swallowed it down as best she could, putting the phone away without opening anything.

Aziraphale was using that enormous black telephone that didn’t have any proper buttons. Aziraphale had had a point the previous night: Warlock could tell that it was a telephone based on its shape and the fact that he was talking into it. That didn’t mean she’d ever seen one like it before. 

“So sorry to bother you this early,” Aziraphale had said into the receiver. “No, I’m afraid it’s not about that.”

Warlock wondered through the bookshop. She’d never seen one like it. Her father’s office had books in it, but nowhere near on this scale. It was also a lot messier than Thaddeus Dowling’s office. But maybe that was a good thing. The few times Warlock had been allowed into the office, it had looked like something out of a particularly patriotic furniture catalogue, without any sign that a person used it at all, save the pictures of Mr Dowling with the three presidents he’d served under.

“Really?” Warlock jumped as Aziraphale exclaimed. “That’s perfect. We’ll bring her to you as soon as breakfast is over. If that’s alright with you, of course.” Aziraphale’s tone made it clear that he would be doing it regardless of whether it was alright with the person on the other end of the phone.

“Excellent, we’ll see you then.” Aziraphale hung up the phone. “Warlock?” he called.

“Yeah?” Warlock stepped out from behind the shelves.

“We might have to take our breakfast in the car.”

How anyone was supposed to eat while their former nanny broke just about every road rule at once was beyond Warlock. But the croissant was good so she made do.

Warlock had, of course, left London before. About three weeks ago she’d told Hastur he smelled like poo in the fields of Megiddo. But she’d never travelled beyond her front garden without an armed escort and plenty of threats from her parents about what might happen if she didn’t behave. She’d never behaved anyway; their version of punishment wasn’t really all that different to the way they treated her normally.

Her phone felt particularly heavy in her pocket, even though she knew that things like missed calls didn’t actually weigh anything. She pulled it out and stared at the notification. Knowing it was a terrible idea, she pressed play on the voice message.

“Warlock, you listen here young man. Come straight home, right now. You’re being far too sensitive about all this . . .” Warlock stopped listening to the message. She’d heard it all before.

“Warlock, dear,” Aziraphale had turned around and was looking at him with an expression that Warlock kind of recognised. It was the one Brother Francis had always worn as he’d watched Nanny Ashtoreth take Warlock to dinner with her parents. “Are you alright? Do you need anything?”

Warlock shook her head. Aziraphale sighed. “We’re nearly there,” he promised her.

Warlock wasn’t sure if they had actually been ‘nearly there’ or if one of her supernatural guardians had sped the process up somehow (not that Crowley wasn’t speeding things up already), but they arrived in what had to be the most normal looking place on Earth. The kind of small English village that people had been writing stories about for centuries. Crowley opened the door to let her out, while Aziraphale walked up to a cottage that would have been at home in a fairytale, and rapped smartly on the door.

The door was answered by a very ordinary looking man who let Aziraphale in, Crowley gestured for Warlock to go ahead. She didn’t. She looked up and saw that Crowley was staring at a horseshoe above the door. Glaring at it.

“I’m not going to hurt them,” he said to the horseshoe. “C’mon, kid.” And Crowley and Warlock entered the cottage.

Inside, sitting around an antique dining table, were Aziraphale and two women. Well, Warlock was pretty sure they were women, but she was starting to understand that wasn’t something you could tell just by looking at someone.

“You must be Warlock,” said one woman, “I’m Anathema. Please, sit down.” She drew her a chair, which Warlock sat in, wishing she was invisible. Maybe she would have been more excited that Anathema was American too if the circumstances hadn’t been so terrible.

The other woman looked at her closely, giving Warlock the feeling that she was being tested. She shrunk further into the hoodie that she’d found in the closet that morning. Crowley and Aziraphale must have noticed this, because they stood behind Warlock’s chair, flanking her on either side. That made her feel braver.

“Hello Warlock,” said the other woman. “I’m Selene. Would you mind telling me what’s going on?”

“Don’t you already know?” Warlock said. People left you alone if you spoke to them like that. Warlock had learned that trick from Alfie.

“Yes,” Selene said, apparently unfazed, “but I’d like to hear it from you.”

Warlock didn’t reply. She didn’t want to talk about the previous night. She’d rather think of literally anything else, except maybe what her parents were going to say when she saw them again.

“You can sign, if it’s easier,” Aziraphale whispered in her ear. She didn’t move.

“No.” she signed.

* * *

Crowley shared a glance with Aziraphale. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Warlock had never been one to trust easily. It was a good thing Selene seemed to know what she was doing.

“Ok then. Do you have any questions you’d like to ask me?” Selene said, still as calm as ever.

Crowley looked over at Anathema, who twitched her head. Crowley knew this one, it usually meant, ‘lets go talk over there.’

He leant down to Warlock. “You gonna be OK if I go for a bit?”

Warlock looked at him. She didn’t want to him to go, he could feel that much.

“Aziraphale will stay, right angel?”

“Of course.” Crowley didn’t smile back at Aziraphale. He was a terrifying demon. Demons do not smile back at angels no matter how in love with them they might be. Oh, who was he kidding.

He followed Anathema out of the open plan kitchen/living room hybrid and down the hall.

“What happened?” Anathema demanded. “Why is there a kid here? What happened to warding Tadfield?”

Crowley put his hands up. Humans were generally a lot nicer to you when you did that. “We’re working on it. But Warlock- “ He cut himself off, there was a lot Anathema didn’t know, and there she was, letting them use her house as some kind of supernatural social work situation.

He tried again. “Did Aziraphale tell you how we know Warlock?”

“No, he just said there was a human kid who needed our help. And why,” Anathema added darkly.

“Well,” Crowley said. He wished Warlock was with him, he always told stories better with her around.

By the time they’d both come back, Selene had actually made some progress with Warlock.

“I’m not a crazy old lady,” Selene laughed, “I’m a sociologist!”

“Does that mean social worker?” Warlock signed, her expression still guarded, but less so, now that Selene wasn’t pushing her to talk about the worst night of her life.

“No, but I’m glad you know what that is,” Selene said.

“G-O-O-G-L-E,” Warlock signed, making Selene laugh.

“You sound a lot like my daughter,” she said.

“Daughter?” Warlock signed.

“Oh yes, I imagine she and her friends will be along any minute. It’s a good thing they can keep each other occupied during the Summer. I can’t imagine trying to keep her cooped up at home all day.” Crowley looked over at Warlock who hung her head, she’d spent her entire life cooped up at home, even if Winfield House had been grand, it had still been a prison.

As if on cue, Crowley heard a cacophony of voices that promised chaos wherever they went. The Them had arrived.

As much as he approved of the kids, he instinctively stepped between the Them and Warlock.

“Mum, are you still here?” That was Pepper’s voice. Pepper ran to stand beside her mother. They looked uncannily alike. Crowley wondered if he was looking at Pepper’s future. If she was lucky, maybe.

Pepper looked at Warlock, taking in the measure of her. But it was Adam that spoke.

“Do you want to come with us to the vegetable garden? Anathema needs lemons if she’s going to make lemonade.”

“Actually, lemons are a fruit, not a vegetable, so aren’t we going to the fruit garden?” Wensleydale said.

“We grow vegetables there as well,” Brain pointed out.

“Do you want to go?” Aziraphale signed at Warlock.

Warlock shook her head. But at that moment, Selene whispered something in Pepper’s ear. They had a silent conversation, not the kind Aziraphale and Crowley had with Warlock, using sign language. The kind of conversation that transcends language. Sure, there were words being exchanged between them, but the real exchange happened outside of words.

When they were done, Pepper walked over to Warlock. “Come on,” she signed slowly (it clearly wasn’t a skill she was used to using). She offered Warlock her hand, and taking his cue, Adam walked over and offered his as well.

Warlock glanced at Crowley and Aziraphale, searching for some kind of sign that this was a trap. Crowley sent her some energy, using magic he hadn’t used since 1274, he hoped it would go better this time. 

It did. Warlock, with her magically assisted confidence took their hands. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley whispered, pulling him into the kitchen, “What’s going to happen to her?”

“Selene is going to offer herself as a foster parent, I’ve assured her that we will pay for her upkeep.”

“What if she doesn’t want to go with them?” Crowley whispered.

“Crowley . . .” Aziraphale sighed. “We can’t keep her with us. She’s human, she needs other humans.”

“She needs uss,” Crowley hissed. He was never leaving Warlock again, not if he could help it. Yeah, she was a little shit, something that could definitely be attributed to her having been raised by a demon and a bastard of an angel for six years, but how could anyone blame her? With the Dowlings for parents? Living in that awful empty house? Hell had chosen that place for a reason, the perfect place to raise someone to destroy the world.

“We cannot take care of a child! You knew, eleven years ago, that’s why you didn’t just take the antichrist to my bookshop. You know better. We know better.” Aziraphale reached up, holding Crowley’s face so their eyes met through the sunglasses.

It was so easy to be in love with someone when everything was new, when you didn’t have to make hard decisions and live with them. It was harder, but still do-able, to love someone when you had to forgive them. It can be so difficult to love someone when you know they’re right and you are wrong. When it feels like the one person who is on your side when no one else in the world is, takes a different side.

Fortunately, Crowley had quite a bit of practice at this, the hardest kind of love. It wasn’t the way it had been before, loving each other from opposite sides. They were their own side now, Aziraphale was on his side, even if it took him a while to see it.

“We’re not leaving her,” Crowley said, shushing Aziraphale as he made to argue. “We’re not going to leave her here and just throw money at the problem like that will solve anything. We’ll keep an eye on her.”

Aziraphale kissed Crowley’s finger, which Crowley removed from his lips, allowing Aziraphale to pull Crowley down into a proper kiss.

“We are her godfathers, after all.” Aziraphale said as he pulled away. Leading Crowley to the window where Selene pulled Pepper and Warlock away from the group.


	9. We Have Our Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> very slight mention of conversion therapy in this chapter, in the paragraph that starts with “Aziraphale thought that question was probably best left unanswered” and ends in “(birth certificate, etc.).” it’s not important so feel free to skip it.

The drive from London to Tadfield had become just another part of their new routine. Crowley and Aziraphale made the trip at least twice a week, and Aziraphale found he was rather enjoying it. He still had a poor understanding of human children at best, but he knew Warlock, so that was something, at least. And he did enjoy watching Crowley with the Them (or minions of chaos, as Crowley had taken to calling them). Though today, they had quite a bit of work to do.

Aziraphale suspected that a large part of why Crowley enjoyed the company of the Them so much, was that they seemed to be labouring under the delusion that Crowley was ‘cool’. Of course, Aziraphale wasn’t entirely sure what constituted ‘cool’, maybe there was something very cool about yelling at plants and endeavouring to drive RP Tyler to having an aneurysm. 

Selene had been waiting for them when they’d pulled up outside in the Bentley.

“They’re over at Adam’s house,” She’d said, waving them off. 

So the Bentley had wound its way down Hogback Lane, pulling up in a place that was definitely illegal to park in. Aziraphale busied himself with the supplies in the boot while Crowley went to the door, answered by a haggard-looking Deidre Young.

“Oh, sorry, who might you be?”

“We’re Warlock’s god-parents,” Crowley said.

“I was under the impression that Warlock’s relationship with her parents was . . .” Deidre narrowed her eyes as she trailed off.

“Hey kid, I’m here!” Crowley called into the house. “We’re not as narrow-minded as some idiots,” Crowley added.

There was a racing of footsteps and the sound of several things nearly breaking but being righted at the last moment. Warlock stopped just short of the door, taking in the sight of Crowley, who Aziraphale thought looked rather ravishing in her dress. It was probably quite a sight for Warlock, dressed in Pepper’s hand-me-downs, who hadn’t seen Crowley dressed like this when she wasn’t being Nanny Ashtoreth. Not that she changed all that much, her hair was still short, just styled differently, making her resemble and evil pixie from a book of fairytales.

“Hi!” Warlock said, looking at the ground, “Can I hug you?”

“When has my answer ever stopped you before?” Crowley joked.

“Well, never but I’m supposed to ask.” That made Aziraphale proud, it looked like some of his lessons had paid off.

“The answer is always yes, if it’s you.” Crowley said. “But if Aziraphale asks, I was very mean.” Aziraphale busied himself with carrying things from the car, pretending he hadn’t seen or heard it all.

“Oh yes, positively evil.” Warlock smirked in a way that was very reminiscent of Crowley. “Um, am I supposed to call you nanny again?”

“No, my name is still Crowley. I just made Aziraphale promise we’d come visit next time I was feeling ‘feminine’.” She looked around and Aziraphale put on his best ignorant face, like hadn’t just seen such a heart-warming display.

“Hello, Warlock,” Aziraphale said, “Pepper, Adam, Brian, Wensleydale.”

The Them waved awkwardly.

Aziraphale handed over a stack of books that must have been heavier than he’d thought, because Warlock dropped them.

“Careful, angel,” Crowley said, saving the Nintendo switch that had been on top of the stack. There had been non-book-things in their collection of things to give Warlock, but Aziraphale hadn’t thought they were particularly important. Well, not to him, but he didn’t miss the way the children’s faces lit up.

“Don’t worry,” Crowley said, “I brought extra controllers for everybody.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t resist looking over at her. And she didn’t think she was nice.

“Sshut up,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale took great delight in noting the faint pink tinge to her cheeks. It was true that he was a being of love, he wondered if that meant there was more of him when Crowley was around.

“Wensley, you’re good at setting this sort of thing up,” Adam said, gesturing to the switch, “wanna go put it on the tv?”

Aziraphale caught something in Adam and Warlock then, a quick exchange of information in only a glance, and Warlock handed the switch over.

“C’mon,” Adam called to the rest of the them. “Catch up when you’re ready, OK?”

Warlock nodded, watching the Them run back into the house before looking up at Crowley properly.

“You’re like me,” she said.

“For today anyway,” Crowley said. Aziraphale knew she was hiding a really touched expression behind her sunglasses.

Warlock looked like she wanted to say more, but the pile of books (and other things) distracted her.

“How did you get all this?”

Aziraphale thought that question was probably best left unanswered. The previous night, two new security guards had appeared at Winfield House. All their paperwork had been in good order, but they hadn’t done any actual security work. What they had done, was ransacked the place. They really had only meant to grab a few of Warlock’s things and leave. But the door to Thaddeus Dowling’s study had been open and Aziraphale was not so technologically obtuse that he couldn’t read a laptop screen. There had been emails, from the vice-president and one of his ‘child education’ associates. And, oh dear, will you look at that, Aziraphale had shown it to Crowley. And anything demonic that happened from that point was really just the course of nature. Aziraphale had, however, had the sense to collect all of Warlock’s paperwork (birth certificate, etc.).

“We have our ways,” Aziraphale said, ignoring Crowley’s snort.

Aziraphale was about to make his way inside (they had been standing on the doorstep for a ridiculous amount of time) when Crowley gently touched his hand, ‘stay’.

“Mom called. Again.” Warlock signed.

“Did you answer?” Aziraphale asked, feeling a pang of sympathy for Warlock.

Warlock shook her head. “Can she make me go back?” She said aloud.

“Legally speaking? Yes,” Crowley said. “Realistically speaking? Not if you don’t want to.” Her tone offered no argument.

Warlock nodded and ran inside, apparently having reached her quota for voicing her anxieties. 

“You know,” Aziraphale whispered as they followed her down the hallway, “I think the Dowlings are going to be quite busy over the next while. Apparently, there was a terrible information leak last night.”

“Really?” Crowley said, fixing Aziraphale with her most chaotic smile. “I can’t imagine how anyone would do such a thing.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale replied, allowing his amusement to colour his tone.

“Can I offer you a cup of tea?” Deidre said, she was watching the children play some sort of racing game with a bemused expression on her face.

“That would be lovely,” Aziraphale said, about to offer Crowley the chance to decline the tea only to find that she had already made herself comfortable on the couch and was getting ready to race.

“She’s good with them,” Deidre said, handing Aziraphale his tea. “Milk? Sugar?”

“No thank you,” Aziraphale said, tearing his eyes away from Crowley.

“Do you have any kids of your own?”

“Goodness, no,” Aziraphale replied, glad he hadn’t sipped his tea yet, he might have spit it out in surprise.

“I have to say, I’m a little confused, Warlock mentioned last week that she had god-fathers, not . . .” Aziraphale had been expecting this. He had been informed, by Crowley, that he had ‘big gay energy’ whatever that meant. People were often surprised to see him with Crowley when she was presenting femininely.

Aziraphale looked over at Crowley, who turned around and gave him a quick nod and a wink. Aziraphale tried not to think about the promises that the wink might mean, and focused on the nod, permission.

“Crowley is actually . . .” Aziraphale trailed off. He’d forgotten the modern word for it again. “Dearest, what’s the word again?” he called.

“Genderfluid!” Crowley called back, not taking her eyes off the game.

“Genderfluid,” Aziraphale said, as if Deidre Young hadn’t just heard Crowley call it across the room.

“Right.” Deidre said faintly. “Do Warlock’s parents know? Since they made you her god-parents?”

“Oh they have no idea.” Aziraphale wasn’t technically lying. Mr and Mrs Dowling had no idea that Brother Francis and Nanny Ashtoreth were actually Aziraphale and Crowley, hiding the child they thought was their son in a quiet English village with the antichrist. Mostly because the possibility of any of it had never crossed their minds.

By the time he had finished his tea, Aziraphale was rather certain that he had managed to ingratiate himself with the Youngs, trying to ignore the guilt he felt at having almost shot their son. It helped that he cleaned the kitchen for her.

He walked over to the couch and, having experience a very stroppy young Warlock in video-game related situations, leant over to Wensleydale, who seemed to be the politest of the Them and asked, “Is this an acceptable time to interrupt?”

“Actually, not really,” Wensleydale said, his eyes glued to the television, “but we’re on the last lap, so it won’t be long.”

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said, perching on the end of a rather battered couch and waiting.

The screen played an odd tune and Crowley turned to look at him, full of the energy that causing a bit of trouble always gave her.

“Time to go?” she asked.

“We promised Anathema we’d help her with the warding.” Aziraphale took her hand.

“Alright,” she smiled at him. “Kids, don’t have too much fun without me.”

“No promises,” said Pepper.

Anathema was waiting for them at Jasmine cottage, she had a detailed map of Tadfield spread out across her kitchen table. The map had been drawn by Adam, with the Them helping out where they could. Aziraphale suspected, and certainly hoped, that having it drawn by the antichrist would give it some more power than a regular map. He could feel Adam’s love for his home all over it, so he was probably right. He usually was about this sort of thing.

“Right,” Crowley said, looking closely at the map. “Ready?”

“Sure,” Anathema said. Aziraphale didn’t need to answer with words, he just gave Crowley’s hand a squeeze.

Aziraphale stepped back as Crowley drew the first symbol. It was fire. It was her name. It was shaped like her tattoo. It meant that she was putting her protection on Tadfield. Anathema had the sense to shut her eyes.

Aziraphale went next, adding his own name, emitting holy light and something akin to electricity. Crowley had to close her eyes as well.

Anathema blindly arranged her own symbol, made out of dirt from her garden. Her portion of the ritual was the most complicated of them all, and it still would have been if she hadn’t had to do it blind. That was just what added some spice to it all.

Aziraphale held his power down, fighting the way it tried to pull back up to Heaven. It took more concentration than he’d expected. A lot more. He could see Crowley scrunching her eyes as she tried to keep focus, probably having as much trouble keeping her power up on this plane as he was keeping his down.

It could have been hours or days, but it was probably only minutes, before Anathema completed the spell. They’d practiced it enough times. Aziraphale had gone over every piece of theory with her. But it was still a huge relief when Aziraphale felt his power stop fighting him, now tethered to Tadfield.

Aziraphale couldn’t remember how they had gotten home. Or how they had gotten to bed. But this was a kind of exhaustion he’d never experienced. The kind that made him understand how Crowley had slept for a century. He let it claim him.


	10. Sleep for a Week

AN: For the first time they woke up, look [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555637/chapters/53473993) (Warning here there be smut)

The second time Crowley and Aziraphale woke up, they stayed awake. Neither of them was sure how long they’d been asleep for until Crowley had checked the mobile phone on the nightstand. It had been a week, and there were several missed calls.

“Shit,” Crowley said, snapping his fingers and dressing himself. “We’ve scared the crap outta Warlock.”

That got Aziraphale to sit up properly. Crowley scrambled through the texts Warlock had sent, each one getting a little more anxious than the last. Right. He was going to have to call. Yes, it was 11pm at night, but it was Summer break, it wasn’t like she had school tomorrow.

“Hey, kid, it’s me,” he said as soon as Warlock had picked up the phone.

“What happened? You disappeared.” Crowley could hear the vulnerability in Warlock’s voice, he probably didn’t have long before they would have to swap to a video call so Warlock could sign.

“Yeah, we used our powers to protect Tadfield, and it was harder than we expected. We just woke up,” Crowley lied, the kid didn’t need to know about that anyway.

“So you’re not . . .” Warlock trailed off, it was clearly getting hard for her to talk.

“We’ll be in Tadfield tomorrow,” Crowley promised.

“OK,” Warlock said, hanging up the phone.

“Is everything alright?” Aziraphale asked, running a warm hand down Crowley’s back.

“Yeah, I think we just scared her.” Crowley frowned at his phone. “Do you recognise this number?” he asked, showing Aziraphale. The number had tried to reach him almost as many times as Warlock had.

“No,” Aziraphale said, puzzled. “Perhaps you should call back?”

“At 11 at night?” 

“It could be urgent,” Aziraphale said, which, of course, meant Crowley was going to call. The phone picked up on the second ring.

“Thank God you called.”

“Yeah, not really,” Crowley said, She shouldn’t be getting any thanks for this, “Who is this?”

“Newt. Pulsifer. The-“

“Oh yes, witchfinder boy. What’s happened?”

“It’s Anathema, she’s been asleep for-“

“Let me guess, a week?”

“How did you-“

“We only just woke up ourselves. It was the ritual; she should be fine.” Crowley looked over at Aziraphale, he was doing that pouty frown that usually meant Crowley was about to be talked into some kind of good deed. Might as well get it over with. “We’re driving up tomorrow. We’ll come see her, see if there’s anything we can do,” he said.

“Great. Yeah. Thank you,” Newt said, “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

“See you then.” Crowley hung up.

“I take it we’re going to Tadfield tomorrow?” Aziraphale said, standing up. “And where on Earth did you send my clothes?”

“Here,” Crowley said, miracling them into his hand. If the clothes were at all resentful of being miracled all over the shop, they said nothing. 

Aziraphale dressed himself a little more sluggishly than he usually did. Crowley, who had been about to suggest they go out for dinner, remembered how off he’d felt the first time he’d slept. It was probably a better idea to order in. He pulled out his phone and managed to find a decent Lebanese restaurant that did late night delivery.

Crowley and Aziraphale, determined not to fall back asleep, made their way downstairs. Their delivery driver miraculously had a very easy drive to Soho, so the food arrived quickly enough.

“Don’t go back to sleep, dear,” Aziraphale said, after they’d eaten. Of course, his saying that was undermined by the fact that he was running his fingers through Crowley’s hair while Crowley rested his head in his lap.

Crowley just raised an eyebrow at him. It was a double-edged sword, he probably should get up, but he was enjoying his current position and happiness, especially when one has spent so much time without it, was so deeply intoxicating, that he just couldn’t bring himself to do it.

“What’re you reading?” he asked. He could never fall asleep while Aziraphale talked about something he loved; it would be like choosing to ride a tricycle over driving the Bentley.

The book that Aziraphale had open on his desk was one Crowley had seen there at least once before, which meant Aziraphale had to like it. It was bound in red cloth that had browned over time.

“Oh, this is Treasure Island, by Robert Louis Stevenson,” Aziraphale said, summoning the book to his hand with a wave.

“Isn’t he the guy who wrote the one about the scientist who made a potion so he could be evil?”

“The very same. This one is rather different, however.”

“What’s it about?” Crowley asked.

“You could read it, you know,” Aziraphale said. Crowley was rather touched at being in the small group of beings that Aziraphale would allow to touch his books, but the whole thing sort of went against his aesthetic.

“I don’t read,” he said, though it was only part true. He hoped Aziraphale would decide not to call him out, even though he had admitted to reading  _ The Strange Case of  _ _ Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde _ .

Aziraphale surprised Crowley by not calling him out or having a huff about his not reading and instead offering, “I could read it to you, if you like?”

That was very agreeable to Crowley. He could lie in Aziraphale’s lap and listen to his angel tell him a story that he clearly wanted to share. He’d always known that if he somehow managed to have a life with Aziraphale, a proper one, together, that it was going to be amazing. This just proved it.

“We have time,” he said, grinning.

“Part one,” Aziraphale said, “The old Buccaneer. The Old Sea-dog at the ‘Admiral Below’. Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about Treasure Island . . .”

It was eight in the morning by the time Aziraphale had finished the book. He had continued to read as Crowley drove them to Tadfield, and Crowley had taken a deliberately scenic route to ensure that the story was finished by the time they arrived. 

Aziraphale had insisted the visit Jasmine Cottage first, he seemed genuinely concerned for the witch’s health. Privately, Crowley reckoned it was the witch-hunter who was in need of help more. 

Crowley could hear voices through the door and his curiosity had him stretching out his awareness before Newt opened the door. One human, he recognised immediately, Shadwell. The other took him a little longer, he couldn’t think of her name, the woman Aziraphale had possessed. 

Crowley pulled himself back into his corporation as Newt ushered them in.

“Well, well,” Shadwell said in what he clearly thought was an intimidating voice.

Crowley looked back at Aziraphale who raised his eyebrows at Crowley and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Dammit. Crowley would rather have liked to send Shadwell somewhere unpleasant. Aziraphale had eventually told him about the circumstances that had led to his being discorporated, and it was a healthy combination of that, and the knowledge he’d been swindled by the idiot that made Crowley particularly unsympathetic towards Shadwell. 

“Sergeant Shadwell, Madame Tracey.” Aziraphale greeted them both with a polite nod. Crowley didn’t say anything, he was busy trying to come up with ways to get to Shadwell that Aziraphale would approve of.

“Right.” Newt said, looking like he wished he was somewhere else. Crowley didn’t blame him, he doubted Newt had been planning to organise an Apocalypse reunion tour. 

“Shall I see if there’s anything I can do to help Anathema?” Aziraphale offered. Newt gestured Aziraphale down the hall leaving Crowley with two options: Follow Aziraphale to the tiny bedroom or stay with Shadwell and Tracey. He went to the bedroom.

“Sorry,” Newt said, “I called them after you didn’t answer your phone. They pop in every now and then to see if she’s woken up.”

“How does Shadwell feel about you dating a witch?” Crowley said, ever the shit-stirrer.

“He doesn’t get to have an opinion on the matter,” Newt said in an impressive display of maturity. Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look, maybe he was right for Anathema.

Anathema was sleeping peacefully on the bed, she was clearly breathing, which was a relief. Crowley could sense that same bone-deep exhaustion that had filled him and Aziraphale in her. He watched Aziraphale lean forward and touch her brow gently. The room filled with Aziraphale as he drew his power and blessed her, sending energy into Anathema and making Crowley’s teeth hurt.

Anathema hummed and blinked as she woke up. “What’s going on?” she said.

Crowley could sense Newt practically vibrating with the need to hug her, to tell her how happy he was that she was awake. If he’d still been in the tempting business, he probably could have gotten Newt to do anything with the promise that he could stay with her. He took Aziraphale’s hand and led him from the room, those two had earned some privacy.

“I’m sure they won’t do anything to harm her,” Madame Tracey’s voice floated down the hallway.

“Hah! You don’ know what I do.” Shadwell said.

“I think I can safely say I know Mr Aziraphale well enough,” Tracey said.

“That Southern Pansy-“ Crowley balked at that.

“Don’t start,” Aziraphale said warningly.

“Don’t start?” Crowley blinked back. 

“I know, I know,” Aziraphale whispered back, “If someone said something like that about anyone else I’d be furious, but-“

“No, it’s not that,” Crowley said, though Aziraphale did have a point. Crowley grinned, the grin of someone who has knowledge that could do some serious damage. “Angel, you know I can sense lust, right?”

Aziraphale nodded, “The feeling of ‘want’ in general, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. So,” Crowley was almost brimming with malicious glee.

“You didn’t sleep with him, did you?” Aziraphale said, “Because when we talked and you didn’t mention-“

“No!” Crowley said. He looked slyly in the direction of the kitchen. “But I could have, if I’d wanted to.”

“You can’t mean-“   
  


“But I do,” Crowley said. “I don’t know what’s made him change his tune, or if he’s just gotten stupider in his old age, but this is going to be fun.”

“I don’t always enjoy your definition of fun,” Aziraphale pointed out.

“You’ll like this one,” Crowley said, linking their hands together and pulling Aziraphale into the kitchen.

Aziraphale let Crowley guide him into a chair at the kitchen table opposite Shadwell and Tracey.

“So,” Crowley said, “What have you two been up to since the world didn’t end?”

One might think, given that Crowley was the sort of demon who would sleep for a century and pine for six thousand years, that he was not perfectly capable of manipulating social norms to suit his needs. And provided that the person he is trying to do this to is Aziraphale, this would be true. But in the case of humans, it is another story entirely. Crowley had, after all, invented a lot of the awkward social niceties that we know and hate today, including the accursed small talk. He may sometimes have regretted inventing it, but this was not one of those times.

“We’ve just been planning a move to the countryside,” Madame Tracey said, sparing everyone present from whatever Shadwell was planning on saying.

“How lovely,” Aziraphale replied, he had, after all, been thwarting Crowley’s demonic wiles long enough to know how to navigate the evils of small talk.

“Yes, and what about you?” Tracey asked, which was, of course, what Crowley had been waiting for. He squeezed Aziraphale’s hand slightly.

“W-well, we’ve been helping Anathema set up some protection around Tadfield, and our god-child has moved up here, so we’ve helped with that,” Aziraphale said, only faltering for a second. Crowley could feel Aziraphale watching him carefully, trying to think of ways to stop him if he went too far.

“You god-child?” Madame Tracey asked, rightfully confused about how an angel and a demon came to have one.

“Yeah, she’s great,” Crowley said airily ignoring the real question behind it, “keeps asking when we’re getting married, though.”

Shadwell coughed loudly. Crowley knew he was smirking, but even Aziraphale’s warning eyebrow raise couldn’t make him stop.

“Oh, really?” Said Madame Tracey politely, covering for Shadwell.

Crowley watched Aziraphale’s resolve crumble. It wasn’t in Aziraphale’s nature to enact personal revenge, but he was still a petty bastard. That was why Crowley loved him so much. Well, part of why.

“She’s still going on about that?” Aziraphale asked, his tone teasing, “You’d better hurry up and propose before she does it for you.”

“How long have you two known each other?” Madame Tracey asked. Crowley was beginning to suspect she was enjoying Shadwell’s discomfort too.

“Six-thousand and twenty-three years,” Aziraphale said.

“Not that we’re counting,” Crowley said, even though they were definitely counting. 

It was incredible for Crowley’s need to cause trouble and borderline pathetic love for Aziraphale came together so perfectly. This was definitely shaping up to be one of the better days of his very long life.

He might have gotten annoyed when Anathema and Newt left their bedroom, distracting everyone, but even he had to admit that he was happy she was OK.

“What did I miss?” She said with forced cheeriness.

“M’not sure,” Crowley told her, “We only just woke up too.”

“I don’t know if you know this, but humans aren’t supposed to survive that long without water,” Newt said.

Crowley and Aziraphale did, in fact, know that.

“Her magic would have sustained her,” Aziraphale said, “and I made sure she had no nutritional deficiencies earlier.”

“Right.” Newt said faintly.

Well this has been lovely,” Madame Tracey said, “do give us a call, dears, if you need anything.” She pulled Shadwell out of the room. He wore an expression that clearly demanded that none of them call.

Crowley did his best not to laugh. He also tried to resist the urge to do more, but he only had so much self-control. He made sure Shadwell saw him rest their intertwined hands on Aziraphale’s thigh as they left.

“Really, dearest?” Aziraphale said, also clearly repressing a laugh.

“Couldn’t resist.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes fondly before turning to Anathema.

“I think we can safely say that the protection spell worked.”

“Yeah,” Anathema agreed, she was holding onto her chair like it might try to escape.

“Take it easy for the next few weeks,” Crowley told her. “We’ll be around and you can call us if you need another energy boost.” He looked at Newt, “In an emergency, you can find me at the bookshop.” Newt nodded.

Aziraphale stood, pulling Crowley up with him. “We’re just going to have a quick check on Warlock. We’ll leave the care here so you’ll know if we’re still here should you need us.” He peered at Anathema one more time, “Do eat, and rest up, dear.”

“Good idea,” Newt said, surprising them, “She seemed really worried about something when I went around to ask for your number.”

That had them racing out the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know the all homophobes are secretly gay trope is tired and old, but I really loved some of the incorrect quotes I saw about this and I had to include it. Also, this is exactly how I act around homophobes.


	11. The Gender Binary is Off-Putting

For the first time since Warlock had moved to Tadfield, Crowley and Aziraphale found her alone. She was sitting in the front garden, waiting for them on her phone. There was no cacophony of mischief surrounding the house, the Them must have been somewhere else. Warlock noticed them approach, but she didn’t get up to greet them. Crowley felt a stab of guilt, she must have thought they’d abandoned her.

Crowley might not have been an expert on human psychology, but he knew that being raised by and angel and a demon masquerading as staff, being the child of particularly shitty parents, and suddenly moving did not make for a stable child. There had to be more they could do, Warlock’s entire life had been planned by Hell to make the kid ready to destroy the Earth by eleven, surely there was some way to at least start fixing all that damage.

On some level, Crowley did know that this sort of healing took time, he’d done enough blessings on Aziraphale’s behalf to understand how tokenistic one gesture of help could be. But at the same time, he wished there was just one gesture he could do to fix everything. Humans weren’t alone in their love of quick, simple solutions.

It was Aziraphale who sat down first, sitting down next to her politely, not saying anything, but waiting for her to decide she was ready to talk. Crowley collapsed next to them both. It was a strange echo of what things had been like in the years leading up to the end of the world: Himself, Aziraphale, and Warlock, all pretending that they could make any sense of the world around them, despite none of them having a clue what they were doing.

Warlock put her phone away and looked at them.

“What’s wrong?” Crowley asked.

“M’just tired,” she said, making both Crowley and Aziraphale look at her sceptically.

“Did I fuck everything up?” she signed.

“Where did you learn-“ Aziraphale began.

“Internet, angel.” Crowley looked more closely at Warlock. “Why do you think you’ve messed anything up?”

“Everyone here is nice to me because they think I’m a girl.” She signed. “I’m not. Not boy. Not girl. What if I’ve made this mess for nothing? What-“

Crowley held Warlock’s hand gently, stopping the anxiety-fuelled signing.

“It’s OK. Warlock, I need you to breathe in time with me, OK?” He said, exaggerating the rise and fall of his chest so Warlock could see it and copy.

“Warlock, you don’t have to be a girl. Boy and girl aren’t the only options available to you and they never were. We have, quite literally, been around for all of human history, so I can guarantee you that the entire concept of the gender binary is more modern than most humans would care to admit, and frankly, the concept as a whole is deeply off-putting, in my personal opinion,” Aziraphale said.

Warlock offered them something of a half-smile. 

“Perhaps we could refer to you as something other than ‘she’, it might make you feel more comfortable. They, perhaps?” Aziraphale suggested.

“Isn’t that plural?” Warlock signed back.

“Bullshit,” Crowley said, “Even Shakespeare used singular they.”

Crowley could feel a glare from Aziraphale, he was definitely going to get a lecture about swearing in front of Warlock. At least Aziraphale didn’t know how Warlock had actually learned to sign ‘fuck’.

“We could try it, if you like?” Aziraphale offered. Warlock nodded. “Crowley, do you have any idea who has been teaching them swear words? I’m sure they didn’t used to be this rude.” Fuck. Crowley pointedly kept his eyes on Warlock, who was making a face at him.

“No idea,” Crowley lied, “they have access to the internet, could’ve come from anywhere.” Warlock huffed a laugh. Way to keep a secret, kid, Crowley thought.

“Good.” Warlock signed. “Feels good.” They pulled out their phone, scrolling down calmed them.

There was the ding of a bicycle bell, and Warlock stood up so quickly that they nearly fell over again.

“Oh good, you’re here,” Adam said, leaving his bike by the fence, “Pepper said she wasn’t sure. Everything OK?”

Warlock nodded, not meeting Adam’s eye.

“Do you want us to tell him?” Crowley signed quickly. Warlock shook their head and pointed to themself.

Adam looked Aziraphale up and down critically. “Where have you been?” he demanded.

“Same as Anathema,” Crowley said. Adam seemed to relax immediately. That made sense, Adam and the other minions of chaos had probably had to watch Warlock try and cope with their sudden disappearance. 

“That’s alright then,” he said. Crowley exchanged a glance with Aziraphale. It looked like Warlock really had people – other humans – who cared about them. It was about time.

“Do you want to go back?” Warlock asked. It was really more of a mumble, but it was speaking, another good sign, Warlock only spoke when they were comfortable.

“Nah, the others can catch up later,” Adam said. Warlock walked over to where Adam was leaning against the fence in what was, by eleven-year-old standards a very cool pose. Crowley looked over at Aziraphale again. He loved the way Aziraphale wore all of his emotions on his sleeve (or face, rather, humans were always coming up with the strangest metaphors). Aziraphale’s raised eyebrows and twinkling eyes told Crowley that his suspicions were confirmed. He glanced back at Warlock, who was signing ‘shut up’ at them behind their back.

Unfortunately for Warlock, Adam was right, the Them could catch up, and it wasn’t long before they were making themselves comfortable in front of Selene’s television.

Crowley and Aziraphale somehow found themselves staying for lunch at Selene’s. They felt like they should, just in case anything went wrong with Warlock’s pronoun change. Nothing did. It was the sort of large group lunch that featured in Christmas ads, minus the snow and turkey. It was exactly the sort of situation in which an angel and demon had absolutely no place. They were good at big, open, public sorts of events, where you could get a feel for the general mood and climate of a culture. They were good at one-on-one temptations and blessings. But this, small, intimate family-ish gathering was too . . . close. The humans all knew each other too well, they understood one another in a way that made social niceties kind of moot. It was the exact sort of humanity that had never been available to them before. 

Crowley had no way of navigating that situation. He could quite literally sense the wants of every person in the room, he could feel every lie, even if the space wasn’t negative, he could feel negativity. 

He wanted to reach over and grab Aziraphale, but he’d been cornered by the Them, well, one of them anyway.

“Actually, you can find any book that’s out of copyright right here,” Wensleydale was saying to Aziraphale, who was looking at Wensley’s phone like it could unlock all the secrets of the universe.

“I just have to go to . . .” Aziraphale was entranced by the screen.

“Project Gutenberg,” Wensleydale said.

“How marvellous,” Aziraphale said, still in awe of the phone. Crowley sighed. He couldn’t drag them out just yet, not while Aziraphale was so happy.

He decided to look over at where Adam and Warlock were watching Pepper and Brian thumb wrestle. 

“Ow, I think you broke my thumb!” Brian said.

“Don’t be stupid, it’s probably just sprained,” Pepper said, looking rather proud of herself. “Best twelve out of twenty-three?” She offered her hand again.

“Not in a million years,” Brian said, going back to his mashed potatoes, most of which he was somehow wearing.

“No fair, Adam never plays,” Pepper said.

“I used to,” Adam pointed out, “but mum said I had to stop coming home injured.”

“What about Warlock?” Brian said.

“I can’t fight Warlock, they’re my little sibling,” Pepper said, as though it was obvious.

“Yeah, so I can get you back while you sleep,” Warlock smirked. Crowley had to hand it to them, they were really getting the hang of the whole being a normal kid with friends thing.

Crowley watched Wensleydale re-join the group. Good. That meant Aziraphale was free to leave.

“You know, I think I ought to get one of those mobile telephones,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley considered suggesting that Aziraphale update his computer first, but Aziraphale’s eyes were doing that thing where they sparkled with excitement. Crowley groaned to himself, he was going to buy Aziraphale a phone, wasn’t he?

“Great to see you all, but I’m afraid we have to go. Bye,” he said, taking Aziraphale’s hand and getting them back to Jasmine cottage and the Bentley.

There can only be so much air in the interior of a car, but for two non-human entities that didn’t actually breathe it was enough. The Bentley was a sanctuary. A place that belonged to the two of them.

“So that happened,” Crowley said, filling the Bentley with his voice.

Aziraphale hummed in response. “Let’s go home.” Home. That sounded good. Crowley tore away from Tadfield back towards London at speeds that no car, let alone one of the Bentley’s age.

“So,” he said, “Warlock and Adam.”

“Indeed,” Aziraphale said carefully, as if he were still afraid they were being watched.

“D’you know if Adam likes them back?” Crowley asked, like it was a perfectly normal question to ask, and not, say an abuse of Aziraphale’s powers, and invasion of the antichrist’s privacy.

“I couldn’t say,” Aziraphale said primly.

“Can’t you sense love?”

“Well, yes, but Adam’s love covers all of Tadfield, I can’t pick out one specific feeling,” Aziraphale said. That sounded like a weak excuse to Crowley.

“Sure,” he said, making it clear that he didn’t believe him. It didn’t matter, he could wait for Aziraphale to tell him the truth. He was an expert at waiting. Besides, it was probably just that Adam didn’t return Warlock’s feelings and he didn’t want to crush the kids dreams, Crowley could understand that.

“They are happy, aren’t they?” Aziraphale said, looking back out the window as if he could see Tadfield despite how far away they were.

“I think so,” Crowley said, “What’s not to be happy about?”

“The Summer is ending. Selene asked me about sending Warlock to school with Pepper when the time comes.”

Crowley nodded, tapping the steering wheel as he did.

“I think she was planning to mention it to Warlock tonight,” Aziraphale continued. “I just hope everything works out.”

“You’re worrying too much. We can smooth things over if there are any problems with the school.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“Aren’t I always?”

“Absolutely not!” Aziraphale said, and he sounded so indignant that Crowley burst out laughing as they pulled up outside Aziraphale’s shop.

“Come on,” he said, pleased to see that Aziraphale had clearly been laughing too. “I know you have a bottle of Château d'Yquem Sauternes hidden away somewhere.”

Aziraphale smiled fondly at Crowley and Crowley remembered that he didn’t have to convince himself that he hadn’t seen it. He smiled back, opening the shop door for his angel.


	12. Late night calls from the Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Let's fuck shit up

It had started out innocently enough. Aziraphale probably should have known that it was only a matter of time before his foray into technology came back to bite him. Crowley had done his best, purchasing him, not a phone, but a tablet. As far as Aziraphale could understand, they were basically the same thing except the tablet was larger, and therefore didn’t fit in his pocket. Of course, Crowley’s phone barely fit in the pockets of those ridiculous trousers, so perhaps that was simply how one decided which electronic device to buy. 

He did enjoy reading on it. Of course, it wasn’t the same as a book. But there was something to be said for the immediate gratification the internet provided. Perhaps he ought to suggest that some of his customers look for their purchases online if they have so much trouble with his opening hours, and as far as Aziraphale could tell, the internet was never closed.

The only truly frustrating thing was that he tended to use his tablet while Crowley was asleep, which meant he had to keep a notebook beside their bed with questions to ask when Crowley awoke. 

Well, there was the other frustrating thing. It had started out quite sweet, with Warlock discovering that they could send messages to his tablet. Messages had the distinct advantage of Warlock not needing to talk to communicate, but Aziraphale had suspected that Warlock missed the sorts of interactions they had in real life. And then Crowley has suggested video calling. had Aziraphale known what was going to happen next, he never would have gone along with it.

He had been sitting at his desk enjoying a nice bottle of Sauvignon Blanc from Oyster Bay in New Zealand. It was quite a bit newer than the wines he usually purchased, but Crowley had shown him how to order wine online and thus far, it had proven to be an excellent purchase. Until the tell-tale sound of Spring from Vivaldi’s  _ Four Seasons _ began to play, signaling that Warlock was calling.

“Hi!” Warlock waved at Aziraphale through the tablet, “Wensleydale has a question for you.” Aziraphale could see the rest of the Them. They must have all been crowding around Warlock’s laptop at Selene’s house. 

“I shall endeavour to answer it for you, then,” Aziraphale said.

“Well,” Wensleydale began, “If the world is only six thousand years old, then why are there dinosaur fossils everywhere?”

Aziraphale chuckled to himself and looked over at Crowley, who was helping himself to more wine with an amused expression.

“I’m afraid that was something of a joke.” Aziraphale said, in truth, he hadn’t really gotten the joke himself, but Crowley did and he seemed to find it very funny.

“But don’t go telling any paleontologists,” Crowley advised, coming to stand behind Aziraphale so he could see what was going on.

“They really are doing quite well, based on the clues that were left for them,” Aziraphale added, giving credit where it was due.

“So all those people who say fossils were left behind by the devil are right?” Pepper said.

Crowley barked a laugh at that, “No, Hell didn’t even exist yet. We were just making things and trying to figure out where to put it all.”

The Them stared at the screen for a moment before all of them began to ask questions at once.

“Wait, so you made everything?” 

“Who came up with the platypus?”

“What did  _ you  _ make?”

“How many angels are there?”

“Did you know why you were doing it?”

Crowley smiled at Aziraphale at the last question, asked by Warlock. It was eerily similar to a question Aziraphale had once asked. He could remember Crowley’s response, “I suppose I could head over to the Vatican and apologise. So sorry your holiness, but when I was making all these stars, I didn’t know that this wet rock was going to be so important, please do us all a favour and get over it.” They had been in Padua, sitting on the roof of the university observatory. Humans had come such a long way from the geocentric argument. More importantly, so had Crowley and Aziraphale: He could remember being so nervous to show Crowley the observatory, so much so that he hadn’t been sure what he was more afraid of; Heaven finding out about the Arrangement, or not making Crowley happy. Goodness, he really should have figured how own feelings out sooner, not that he would have dared to.

  
  


“I’m afraid I didn’t make anything,” Aziraphale said, “That wasn’t my job.” He decided not to add that it had been Crowley’s, that was something Crowley would share on his own account.

“I did.” Crowley said, sharing it on his own account.

“What did you make?” Adam asked, his eyes wide.

“Stars mostly,” Crowley leant over Aziraphale’s shoulder to look at the children in the tablet properly. Whatever he saw seemed to make a decision for him. “I’ll send you the links to pictures of a few of the ones I built, but we’ll have to hang up so I can do that.”

The Them looked at eachother and Adam said, “Ok then.”

Crowley slipped the tablet out of Aziraphale’s hands and began to send messages to Warlock.

“Sorry about that,” he said.

“It was quite nice to watch,” Aziraphale said, watching a slight blush spread over Crowley’s cheeks. “I can’t fault their curiosity.” Crowley raised an eyebrow at that and continued to fiddle with the tablet.

Unfortunately, that was not the last time anything like that happened. It was all very well and good when they were downstairs, sharing wine in the bookshop. But it was deeply inconvenient when they were upstairs and Crowley was alsep, or worse. 

“You know, you don’t have to answer,” Crowley said, having been woken up by the most recent call.

“I know, but then they might look it up on the Google and heave- goodness knows what they might find there,” Aziraphale replied.

“Fair point,” Crowley conceded.

“Perhaps I ought to establish some ground rules for when they can call,” Aziraphale fretted. Certainly, they couldn’t keep living like this. The Them’s curiosity and wonder at the world around them was very sweet, but this was exactly why Aziraphale had put his foot down about them keeping Warlock, they simply couldn’t handle this constant barrage of demands.

“I think I’m beginning to understand why I Fell,” Crowley joked. “I must have driven everyone up there nuts.” He sighed to himself.

Instinctively, Aziraphale reached out his hand, placing it lightly on Crowley’s shoulder. 

“M’joking, Angel,” Crowley said, “I don’t wanna get into it tonight.”

Crowley seldom spoke of his life before the Fall. Aziraphale often wondered if this was because his memories, like Aziraphale’s own, were rather foggy, after all, time either hadn’t been invented yet, or if it had, then it was still in its beta-testing stage, and that made it rather hard to categories and understand where the memories came from, it wasn’t as though they’d had a concept of ‘when’ to go off. Aziraphale didn’t know any other demons to compare Crowley to, so perhaps that was normal, he wouldn’t have been surprised, based on his little excursion to Hell. But he’d gathered bits and pieces together over the years: He knew Crowley had made stars, that he’d Fallen for asking questions (or at least that was how Crowley saw it), and that somehow, whatever he had asked had been impudent enough to get him declared an enemy of Heaven.

If it wasn’t something Crowley felt comfortable discussing, then Aziraphale wasn’t going to push it. Besides, it wasn’t particularly important who Crowley had been, what mattered was who he was now.

Aziraphale hummed in acquiescence and ran his hand across Crowley’s back until his breathing slowed.

To Aziraphale’s delight, the Them were very understanding of his new terms; no calling if it was after eight o’clock unless it was an emergency. They had called, the following night, at 7:30pm, which was allowed. 

“We know it’s late,” Adam said, “but we only have one question.”

“Shoot,” Crowley said, his chin resting on Aziraphale’s head.

“What happens to people when we die?”

Aziraphale was not one for swearing aloud. It had started as something of a habit, and then became a rather amusing way of spiting Crowley. However, when he heard Crowley hiss ‘fuck’ at this question, Aziraphale had to agree with the sentiment.

“Erm, well . . .” Aziraphale could hear how flustered he was, but what was he supposed to do about it? 

“Are you not allowed to tell us?” Wensleydale asked.

“Don’t be thick,” Pepper said, “they don’t work for Heaven or Hell anymore, remember.”

Aziraphale could feel his anxiety rising. This was exactly the sort of thing they weren’t supposed to tell humans. He could feel Crowley frozen above him, clearly his anxieties were shared.

He twisted his ring, trying to think of something to say. Should he put the conversation off? Or just tell them? It was probably best to just get it over with.

“A-are you all familiar with the quantity versus quality argument?” he asked.

The Them, who had been learning to write essays at school the previous year, all nodded with some degree of distaste.

“Well, those are the arguments used by Hell and Heaven respectively, with regards to how they consider the collection of souls. Hell want the most, Heaven want the best.” Aziraphale cleared his throat, this was very difficult to say, but he supposed he and Crowley, the only two entities who had worked both sides, were unique in their ability to answer all of the question.

“Why do they want souls anyway?” Adam asked, “Seems like a lot of bother to me.”

“You saw why,” Crowley said, “the legions of the blessed and the damned are the footsoldiers of Armageddon.”

“Yes, quite.” Aziraphle said, “The, erm, argument of Heaven is that they want souls who believe in their cause, people who have lived good lives, and when those people die, they give them paradise in the belief that they will fight to protect it when the time comes.”

Aziraphale continued, “Hell argue that numbers are more important, and it doesn’t hurt for the souls to be a little bloodthirsty as well. But many of the worst people in history were entirely self-motivated, which means that Hell have to break that self in order to get them to do as they are told, hence the torturing.”

“You should see what they do to Nazis,” Crowley smirked. The Them eyed him warily. Aziraphale suspected they often forgot he was a demon.

“I thought the whole point of Jesus was that people didn’t go to Hell for just existing, they had to actually do something bad and not ask for forgiveness,” Brian said. Aziraphale smiled, the Them had clearly done some research before calling him.

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed, “but many people don’t beg for forgiveness, they decide to tell themselves that what they did was right even when it wasn’t. You have to actually be sorry for it to work.”

“What about people who don’t believe in God?” Pepper asked, “Where do they go?”

“While believing certainly helps, there are good people from all religions. The important thing is their values.”

“I bet Sandalphon hates that,” Crowley laughed.

“He does, rather,” Aziraphale said, smiling, before turning back to the Them who were looking very confused.

“Sandalphon is an angel, who we are not overly fond of,” Aziraphale explained, “Angels and demons don’t control who goes where, only the Almighty can do that.”

“Something a lot of angels hate because it means people they don’t agree with can end up in Heaven.” Crowley added.

“OK,” Adam said. Aziraphale could see the Them looking around at each other meaningfully. That was concerning. “Thanks for answering the question. Bye.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged worried glances.

Some ninety kilometres away, Adam stood up. “We need to come up with a plan,” he said.

“Don’t we have ages?” Brian asked.

“Actually, we could die any time,” Wensleydale said helpfully.

“I don’t want to end up fighting in some stupid war for all eternity,” Pepper added. 

Adam turned to look at Warlock, who was biting their lip nervously.

“What do you think Warlock?”

“Let’s fuck shit up,” Warlock signed.

“You’re lucky mum didn’t see that,” Pepper said, “they said ‘let’s fuck shit up,’” she translated helpfully.

The Them got to work.


	13. An Archangel and a Prince of Hell Walk into a Bar

Something was wrong. Crowley sat bolt upright, like something had shocked him. He could feel prickling all over his skin, and deeper than it, as if it went down to the very core of his being. He heard a shattering sound come from downstairs - Aziraphale! Crowley dressed himself with a snap and raced down to see Aziraphale looking down at his favourite mug broken on the ground.

Aziraphale blinked. “So sorry if I woke you. I don’t know what came over me.” His distracted smile brittle on his face.

“I feel it too,” Crowley said, “something’s wrong.” Crowley was grateful for his phone ringing, it was a distraction from the awful feeling of wrongness that was surrounding him.

“Hello?” He answered.

“It’s Anathema,” Newt’s voice said, “She just woke up and-”

“Let me guess, she says something’s wrong?” Crowley said.

“No,” Newt said, “something’s hurting her.” Crowley could make out the sound of a sob coming from Newt’s end of the line. That made some sense, if whatever it was could do this to him and Aziraphale, it could definitely hurt a human witch.

“We’ll be right there,” he promised. He turned back to Aziraphale, who was holding a mug that was no longer broken, and raised his eyebrows in question. Aziraphale nodded, putting his mug down, and faster than any human would have been able to, they were in the Bentley on their way to Tadfield.

Logistically speaking, there was no way a 1920s Bentley should have been able to break the sound barrier. However, that was only because the scientists who had come up with those logistics had never met Crowley or his Bentley. And even if they had, the Bentley knew better than to pay attention to something like that. 

They arrived in Tadfield in less than an hour, and in that time the awful sensation that was tormenting both angel and demon had not let up. If anything, it was getting worse. 

When they pulled up outside Jasmine cottage, the door was already open. Newt was supporting Anathema on one side, while she held herself up against the doorframe on the other. 

“Something’s trying to get past the wards,” she said between laboured breaths. 

“Right,” Crowley said, pulling out his phone and texting Warlock. 

“Do we know where it’s trying to get in?” Aziraphale asked.

“The map said just south of the quarry,” Anathema said, waving a hand inside at the map Adam and his friends had drawn.

“Right,” Crowley said again, putting his phone away, “Let’s go.”

Not one to argue with any of the three beings around him, Newt helped Anathema into the backseat of the Bentley. As soon as he’d done up his own seatbelt, the car shot off for the south border of Tadfield. 

Perhaps Newt should have been surprised to see the Them cycling to the quarry alongside the car for the last minute of their journey, but it was hardly the weirdest thing that had happened that morning, in fact, it was barely in the top ten.

What did make it to the top then, were the two beings standing at the edge of the quarry. They just looked so normal. Well, one of them did, anyway. A tall man in a grey suit who looked like he was pushing against thin air and failing. Beside him was a much smaller person of indeterminate gender dressed in black doing the same thing. Either they were one Hell of a mime act, or these were the things trying to get into Tadfield.

Crowley parked the Bentley and walked the rest of the way. He wasn’t about to let Beelzebub and Gabriel anywhere near his precious car. He just wished he could do the same thing with his precious angel, but one look at the hard line of Azirpahale’s mouth had made him think better of suggesting it.

He walked over to the threat, putting as much saunter into his steps as he could. We still have the upper hand, he reminded himself, they don’t know about the switch, or Anathema, or anything about Earth.

“You know there are easier ways to get our attention,” Crowley said, filling his voice with bravado.

“Stay out of thizz,” Beelzebub ordered, but it lacked force behind it, or maybe that was just part of no longer being subservient to Hell, Beelzebub could no longer force him to obey their orders. That was interesting.

“No, I don’t think we will,” Aziraphale said primly, moving so he was standing beside Crowley, close enough that the fabric of his coat brushed Crowley’s fingers. 

“Aziraphale, stay the fuck out of this,” Gabriel ordered and Cowley felt Aziraphale stiffen, was he coming to the same conclusion Crowley had reached about orders from their former bosses? Or was it something else?

“Actually,” Wensleydale said. The Them had caught up, “You’re the ones who are being kept out of something.”

It was easy to forget that these kids had literally stabbed three of the horsemen when they were mucking around together, but in front of a threat to their home, the truth of it eminated off them.

Gabriel and Beelzebub stopped pushing against the wards and looked at the children. Adam glared right back at them. Crowley could feel Adams thoughts rolling off him, ‘This is my home and you aren’t welcome here’. Gabriel and Beelzebub seemed to be pushed backward slightly by it. But it was no longer the Apocalypse, Adam’s power was a lot less than it had been.

“Adam Young,” Gabriel said, meeting the antichrist’s stare with one of his own. “Just the person we were looking for.”

“Well, you found me,” Adam said, his posture not matching the careless tone of his words at all, “What do you want?”

“We know what you’re planning,” Beelzebub said, stepping forwards and only stopping because the wards wouldn’t let them go any further. “And you can either stop now or-”

“Or what?” Pepper demanded, “You’ll torture us for all eternity when we die? Or bore us?” She added at Gabriel. “We’re not afraid of you!”

Crowley couldn’t help but notice that she was standing in front of Warlock. The kid couldn’t have asked for a better older sister. 

However, he didn’t have a lot of time to appreciate it because there was the pressing issue of a group of children planning to do something so serious that both Heaven and Hell had shown up to stop them. What on Earth were they planning?

“Did you think we wouldn’t notice a zudden pull of power to this place? That we’d just let it zlide?” Beelzebub challenged. 

“Well, we kinda hoped,” Crowley retorted, keeping his tone light.

“Zilence!” Beelzebub ordered, and before Armageddon an order like that would have stuck, but Crowley could feel it sliding off him like water off ducks.

“You.” Gabriel pointed at Adam, “don’t have any idea what you’re messing with.”

“You said that last time,” Brian pointed out.

“And you can’t stop someone from having ideas. That wouldn’t make any sense,” Wensleydale added.

Gabriel made the face adults make when a child has made a very good point at the worst possible moment. Crowley had to admit, the Them were good at this.

“You need to leave.” Adam said. He was breathing heavily, as if focusing very hard on something. “Go. Now.”

And they did. That was weird. Crowley, despite considering himself an expert on getting rid of problems quickly, wasn’t ready for their problems to go away that quickly. So yeah, that surprised him, but what didn’t surprise him was Aziraphale turning around to face the Them and saying, “What on Earth have you done?”

Crowley rather wanted to know as well. 

Adam looked away. “Well . . .”

Warlock stepped forward from behind Pepper, signing as they spoke. “We think the afterlife is bullshit. We live our whole lives according to rules where only some of them apply and there’s no way of knowing which ones do.”

“Well, there’s your conscience,” Aziraphale said, but Warlock ignored him.

“And then we get conscripted to fight in a war forever. And yeah, going to Heaven sounds nicer but you still end up fighting no matter what. So we decided we’re going to change it.”

“How are you supposed to-” Crowley remembered they had the antichrist on their side, “Oh.”

“We’re planning ways to find each other when we die and then,” Brian grinned. It was weird to watch a human smile through the phrase ‘when we die’. 

“We’re going to liberate Heaven and Hell,” Pepper said. “After all, what’re they going to do? Kill us.” She had a point.

Crowley had always thought that the fight between Heaven, Hell, and Humanity would be started by Heaven and Hell. He should have known better: Humans had never been ones to just accept the way things were handed to them, if there was a way to improve something, they found it. 

“You should have told us what you were planning,” Aziraphale said from beside Crowley. He was looking at the Them with a mixture of delight and exasperation, clearly having just arrived at the same conclusion as Crowley. 

“You were in enough trouble,” Warlock signed.

“Yeah, well so are you, now,” Crowley said, dryly, “Heaven and Hell aren’t going to take this sitting down.” The Them looked at each other nervously, they clearly hadn’t expected to be caught so soon.

  
  


But that was why Gabriel and Beelzebub were so scared, Crowley realised, they couldn’t stop them. Free will was the whole point of humanity. It was actually possible to dismantle Heaven and Hell’s power over souls. To make that ‘free will’ really matter. 

How can we help?” He asked.

* * *

Thirty-three years was not a long time to be trapped in Hell in the grand scheme of things. But with no way of getting a body anytime soon it was torture. Which, in all fairness, is what Hell does best.

The sound of footsteps made Furcas look up. He was so buried in paperwork that he almost didn’t hear them. Almost.

“Lord Beelzebub,” he said, “How went Armageddon?”

“You know exactly how it went.” Beelzebub hissed. 

“You wouldn’t have had that problem if I’d been the demon in charge.” Furcas said. True, he didn’t have a body, but still. It was bullshit that Crowley had gotten the job. Who’d kept the Cold War going for years? Who’d started the Cuban missile crisis? True, Crowley’s acts of evil went a lot further back, the Spanish Inquisition, both World Wars, the M25, but Furcas hadn’t been doing nothing then. He’d been at the Tower of Babel too, he’d been doing all of this just as long as Crowley had. Well, nearly as long.

“Furcas.” Beelzebub’s cold tone snapped him back to reality. He was trapped, in Hell, with no body and a mile of paperwork standing between him and getting one. The only thing grosser than feeling the slime dripping from the awful plumbing on skin was the feeling of it dripping through you. Furcas wasn’t sure if he’d ever make it out. “We have come to offer you a deal.” 

We? Furcas looked behind Beelzebub and saw something that would have made his heart beat furiously if he still had one. The archangel Gabriel.

“Wh-what deal?” Furcas asked, unable to stop his voice from shaking. Whatever had a prince of Hell and an archangel working together had to be seriously terrifying.

“We’ll give you a body, as well as access to the resources from both of us, on one condition.” Gabriel said.

A condition, there was always a condition. “Yeah?”

“You have to destroy a group of beings.” Gabriel said.

“Who?” Destruction was what Furcas did best after all.

“The antichrist and his friends,” Beelzebub said, “a witch.” Humans, Furcas could easily destroy humans. “The angel Aziraphale.” An angel, that could be difficult, but not impossible.

“Who has shown an unfortunate immunity to Hellfire, as the demon has Holy Water.” Gabriel added. That was inconvenient. But an angel and a demon, working together? Furcas’ curiosity was piqued. 

“And the demon Crowley.” Beelzebub finished. 

That settled it. “I’m in.”


	14. First Day of School

Warlock hated serious discussions. Normally, the discussions themselves weren’t so bad, but the time between being told a discussion would take place and it actually happening was the worst. There were just so many ways for things to go wrong, so many horrible scenarios they could conjure. After all, Selene could always decide that she hadn’t signed up for an extra kid, let alone one who couldn’t always talk or settle on pronouns to use, or a gender presentation, and where would that leave Warlock?

So it should be easy enough to understand that, when Selene sat Pepper and Warlock down on the day before the school year started, Warlock was already feeling more than a little nervous. 

“I’ve spoken to Mr Addison and he says everything is prepared for you to start there, Warlock,” she said, “You’ll have Pepper in all of your core classes so she can interpret for you if you’re having difficulty speaking.” She pressed her lips together disapprovingly. Warlock could remember how Selene had demanded an interpreter from the school, but as Warlock could hear, the school had denied it. Mr Addison was everything Selene hated in teachers, which of course meant, he was very by-the-book and had little tolerance for nonsense. Anyone who had met Pepper would be able to see why this didn’t mesh well with Selene’s parenting style. Still, it was a state-run school with decent GCSE results so Selene wasn’t about to go sending Pepper anywhere else. Private schools were tools on imperialism and classism anyway [AN I went to a private school and loved it, but the point is still valid]

“I think you have friends in all of your classes, and if you have any problems I want you to call me or your god-parents right away, OK?” Selene continued.

Warlock nodded, and sat back in a sigh of relief when Selene’s gaze turned to Pepper.

“Pepper, try not to get into any more fights this year.”

“Bu-” Pepper began but Selene cut her off.

“Or at the very least don’t get caught.” Selene rolled her eyes fondly at her daughter.

“You know how it goes by now, I’ll always be proud of you for sticking up for what’s right, but please try to make your point using methods I can be proud of as well.”

“All right,” Pepper said.”

“Excellent. Now off to bed, both of you.” Selene waved them up the stairs.

Warlock should have known they’d show up, they berated themself for not realising sooner. Parking their bike outside Marlborough Secondary School, they accepted their fate as two figures exited a glossy black Bentley, much to the gawking of other students.

“Good morning, Warlock,” Aziraphale said, not looking at them. Warlock could see that he was assessing the school grounds and fixing anything he found wanting. They wouldn’t be surprised to find several gender-neutral toilets that hadn’t been there on the orientation day.

“Hey kid,” Crowley said, “Why’s everyone dressed like that?”

“You mean our school uniforms?” Pepper said, “We have to. It’s the rules.”

Crowley made a face at that. 

“There are ways around them,” Warlock signed. They were just relieved that the school’s uniform guide didn’t specify that certain genders had to wear certain uniform pieces, it was nice to know that they could wear a skirt if they wanted to.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Crowley said even though he hadn’t technically heard it so much as seen it. “You let us know if you need anything, we’ll be nearby today in case there are any problems.” Crowley promised. Warlock interpreted this to mean Crowley was taking Aziraphale to lunch nearby. That seemed to be what they did when they weren’t in Tadfield or at the bookshop. 

“That applies to you lot as well,” Crowley said, and Warlock turned to look at where pepper was to fond Adam, Brian and Wensleydale there as well. It really served as a testament to how distracted they’d been with worry that they hadn’t noticed Adam arriving.

“All right.” Adam said, leading the Them into the school with Warlock trailing along behind him. Warlock only turned back to sign ‘thank you’ to Crowley and Aziraphale before entering the building.

Warlock knew they were lucky, they were starting secondary school with everyone else instead of being the only new kid, but it was still awkward for them, most of these kids had grown up around each other and had lived normal lives. Until just over a month ago, Warlock had had secret service agents following them to the bathroom. And yeah, this was so much better than Harrow or Eton or wherever else their parents had been thinking about sending them, but it was still school, and that wasn’t something Warlock had a lot of positive experience with. Hell, they hadn’t even known having friends was supposed to make you feel good about yourself until meeting the Them.

Not for the first time (or even the last) Warlock wished they had powers like their godparents. Even if shapeshifting wasn’t an eternal mood for the gender diverse, just knowing they could make things go smoothly would have helped a lot with the anxiety. Which of course, was making it hard for them to talk, which made them more anxious, which made it harder to talk, which made them more anxious.

“Warlock, breathe,” Pepper placed a steadying hand on their shoulder. They hadn’t even realised they were spiralling. 

“Sorry,” Warlock signed, not calming down in the slightest.

“Actually,” Wensleydale said, “I’m feeling nervous too: I don’t know my timetable yet, so I can’t get ready for anything, and being in a new place is always a bit scary.”

This was normally where Pepper would chime in and tell Wensley that it was stupid to be scared, but she could see that it was helping warlock, so she said nothing.

“And besides,” Brian added, “even if we aren’t in all the same classes, we’ll ride home together every day.”

“Exactly,” Adam agreed, “and we’ll have lunch together as well. If Heaven and Hell can’t separate us forever, what chance does a school have?”

That reminded Warlock, if they got too scared to deal with school, they could always work on the plan. “Thanks.” They signed.

Warlock had to use their escapist plan pretty quickly. It turned out their maths teacher was the worst, after handing them a test ‘to see where they were at’ she then refused to let them do anything but sit in silence at their desks while everyone else finished the test.

No, Warlock wasn’t one of those magical autistic people who could do perfect maths in their head, they’d just had fancy tutors for the first 11 years of their life. So they decided to run through the plan in their head:

It was simple enough, die and wait for Adam. At least, that was the gist of it. After Aziraphale had told them recently departed spirits could linger on Earth if they still had ties to the world, the Them had decided that was where they’d meet. While they were there, they’d tell as many other ghosts as they could to try and recruit them to the cause, and then the next step would happen.

They figured at least one of them would make it into Heaven (Warlock’s money was on Brian or Wensley), and that person would go to Heaven and recruit more spirits, Adam, who both Crowley and Aziraphale were unfortunately certain would end up in Hell just for being Satan’s sort-of kid, would start an uprising in Hell. Freeing the spirits who hadn’t been terrible, just not great. They had unanimously voted to leave the Nazis to their torture.

It was only recently that Wensley had thought to ask the question “But what do we do after?”

That had even stumped Adam. But Warlock was beginning to have an idea or two. 

They brainstormed through their ideas until lunchtime finally came. Warlock had absolutely been counting down the minutes. Doing that thing all high school students do when they realise class isn’t an hour long, by telling themself that they only had to get through ten minutes six times. 

They compared timetables and warlock was relieved to see that they didn’t have any classes without a friend, and their stomach did a little flop when they realised that only Adam and Warlock were in the same Art and Religious Education classes. RE was definitely going to be an interesting class with the fake and real antichrist in it. 

Everything was going rather well for them until a boy walked past their table and Warlock saw Pepper stiffen. Ah yes, Warlock could vaguely recognise him as Edward ‘Greasy’ Johnson. His gang, the Johnsonites, hadn’t been up to much thus far because the Johnson family had gone on vacation to Hawai’i for the Summer. But now the Them’s biggest rivals were back. 

Adam and Ed seemed to be having some kind of staring contest. Warlock was never going to be able to understand this sort of thing. They couldn’t have said who won, but it seemed to end when Ed asked Adam, “Who’s that?” Pointing at Warlock.

“That’s my sibling,” Pepper said, ‘Warlock.”

“What, you can’t speak for yourself?”

Warlock felt a rush of panic and fought to stay on top of it. It was true, they couldn’t speak for themselves, not all the time. They had to fight back against wave after wave of their worst fears; that they were too much of a bother to be friends with, to care about. But this wasn’t Warlock’s first bully, and they could still remember the advice Nanny Ashtoreth and Brother Francis had given them with regards to Alfie. Warlock signed, “You just don’t speak my language.” Finishing the sign with a gesture that even people who didn’t know sign language would be able to recognise.

Brian was the first to burst out laughing, but the rest of the Them soon followed. Pepper translated for Ed between fits of laughter at him. Realising there was no way for him to come out of this confrontation looking like anything but stupid, Greasy Johnson walked away.

The rest of the school day was rather uneventful after that, and Warlock was very glad of the ride home they had to talk with their friends. By the sounds of things, their high school was great compared to their knowledge of other schools (which stemmed entirely from movies and TV and Warlock’s impressions of Harrow and Eton). They talked about the teachers they liked and didn’t like (Mrs Anvir, the maths teacher, ranked very low on everyone’s lists) and their plans for total-school domination. 

Warlock noticed the Bentley following them home, but it didn’t bother them. They’d been so nervous before school, it made sense that Crowley and Aziraphale would come check on them afterwards. They wondered if they could talk them into mircaling it so every time someone made fun of them for wearing a skirt (which they wanted to do tomorrow) the person doing the teasing would trip over. True, it wasn’t exactly kind, but neither was the gender binary so they’d just have to deal with it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what Crowley and Aziraphale got up to that day go here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555637/chapters/55087201  
> Warning, here there be smut


	15. JC and the bois

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right you get 2 chapters this week because I'm feeling nice

Aziraphale had to admit that things were quieter now that the Them were back at school. Things had always been this quiet before, it had been normal, but now it felt bizarre. Of course, before, ‘normal’ had also entailed pining hopelessly for a demon, answering to whatever management kick Gabriel was on, and, for the last few years, panicking about the end of the world. More changes had taken place in the last few months than in the entire six thousand years prior, and those changes felt like they hand changed the axis of Aziraphale’s world, so why, then, did it keep spinning?

Aziraphale had two answers to that question: The first, was that although the ending of each change had come with Armageddon many of the changes had begun much sooner; the first Arrangement at the end of the 14th century, Aziraphale and Crowley’s first meal together in 41AD, or perhaps in the exact moment Aziraphale had decided to reply to Crowley on the walls of Eden. Yes, the changes, however sudden they may have felt, had been building for some time.

And there was something to be said for having time to themselves now. Quite a bit to be said, in fact. They had always enjoyed playing at being human, taking their ‘human’ lives to logical conclusions, but now they were able to play at being themselves. It wasn’t really playing, but after so long only being able to enjoy the charms of humanity and domesticity through that lens, it was easy to see why it felt that way.

Sometimes, when everything was so calm it was as though the air around them had gone still, Aziraphale liked to imagine how they would appear to others, how an artist would capture the moment before them. Would they be able to understand what they were seeing? And if they did how would they portray it. Perhaps, if Armageddon had taken place five hundred years prior, Leonardo could have done it, he’d certainly had a talent for seeing what he ought not to have. But five hundred years ago, Aziraphale would never have agreed to Crowley’s scheme to save the world, and perhaps neither of them would have wanted to, the world had been so terrible in the Middle Ages, and things had only just begun to get better. No, it was for the best that things had happened as they did, even if it meant Aziraphle’s silly wish could never be fulfilled outside his imagination.

In that moment he was picturing the two of them in his mind’s eye, himself seated in the middle of his lounge, with Crowley laying across him with his stomach down so Aziraphale could rest his book (a riveting collection of Essays by George Orwell) in the crook of Crowley’s back. It was the sort of scene that Aziraphale was determined to picture in his mind for as long as he could, but even if he did so for all eternity, he was sure he’d never run out of appreciation for it. 

So naturally, it was in this moment, that his tablet decided to ring with Vivaldi’s  _ Spring _ . 

“You really should change your ringtone,” Crowley said, reaching out awkwardly to the coffee table (the actual surface of the table hadn’t been seen for many years, but Aziraphale was sure it was somewhere underneath all the books) for Aziraphale’s tablet and handing it over. Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley had a point, after several unfortunately timed calls from the Them, he had begun to develop a sort of pavlovian reaction to Vivaldi’s  _ Spring _ . But he wasn’t convinced it was fair to damn any of his other preferred pieces to a similar fate. 

He checked the time, it was 4:30pm, Warlock must have called as soon as they’d gotten home from school.

“Good afternoon, Warlock, Adam,” Aziraphale smiled at the two figures on the screen. They were still in their school uniforms and looked a tad out of breath, most likely from having just cycled home. Behind them, Aziraphale could see the wall behind Warlock’s bed where the them had been formulating their plans for what to do after they died. It might have seemed a tad morbid, but they’d set it out in a manner not unlike a conspiracy board or serial killer investigation, so in the eyes of eleven year olds, the cool factor outweighed the morbidity. It also helped that Selene was a big believer in giving children their privacy once they were old enough to dress themselves, so there was no risk of a parent seeing it.

“Hi Aziraphale,” Adam said, “can you help us with our homework?” Aziraphale had not been expecting that, but he was always pleased to share his knowledge. What he had been expecting, and, in fact, preparing for, was for Adam to have come up with another idea for their plan to destroy Heaven, Hell, and the entire system that was in place regarding human souls. It was easy to forget that their master strategist needed to do things like homework.

“Of course, this would be for English, I take it?” Aziraphale asked. After all, who better to call for assistance on such matters that the owner of a bookshop. Though, if it was Shakespeare, he would have to get Crowley involved, as Crowley was the one who had actually befriended the playwright.

“S’for religion,” Warlock said.

Aziraphale more felt than heard Crowley snort from beneath the tablet, calls from Warlock were normal enough that Crowley hadn’t seen any need to move.

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, “Well, we-we can’t - You can’t tell anyone-”

“Not like that,” Adam said, making Aziraphale’s horror leave him like a deflating balloon. “Reverend Shaw wants us to write an essay about what Jesus would think if he were alive today.

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” Crowley said from Aziraphale’s lap, “and I met the Roman emperor who made his horse a senator.”

“He did what? That’s wicked!” Adam said, even though Crowley hadn’t moved and therefore wasn’t in frame.

“Obviously its stupid,” Warlock said, sounding more like Pepper than ever before, “but since you actually met him . . .”

“Oh I barely met him,” Aziraphale said, it was true, Gabriel had decided that such a job was far too important for Aziraphale. Something that he certainly wasn’t still bitter about 2000 years later, that would be absurd.

“I did,” Crowley said, grumbling as he sat up, “Whaddya want to know?”

“If Jesus Christ arrived in England today what do you believe he would think and why?” Adam read off the assessment outline.

“Well, don’t quote me on this, but I think he’d be pretty freaked out by cars and smart phones and stuff,” Crowley said snarkily. Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel like Crowley was directing that comment pointedly at him to point out how long it had taken him to purchase such a device.

“We’re supposed to use quotes from the New Testament to back up what we write, is there anything in there for that?” Adam asked, still looking at the assessment outline.

“Why would I know, that’s his department,” Crowley gestured lazily at Aziraphale with his left hand which Aziraphale caught and laced his fingers through. 

“None that I know of,” Aziraphale said.

“Well if you really want to start trouble,” Crowley started and Aziraphale sighed, knowing that Adam always wanted to cause trouble, “You could write about the fact that Jesus’ name was actually Yeshua or Joshua, his best friends were a bunch of revolutionaries against the status quo, and he spent his time helping marginalised members of the community, like lepers and sex workers and demons and stuff.” Crowley paused as Adam and Warlock hastily wrote all this down. “You can get them quotes for all that, can’t you angel?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, this was the exact sort of thing angels weren’t supposed to do, to twist the word of God to suit his own purposes. But, he argued to himself, humans have been doing exactly that for as long as there had been a Scripture, and if he was on the side of humanity now . . .

“Your school uses the NIV Bible, doesn’t it?” He said, “I can do most of that except for the demons, they only mention you in passing I’m afraid, dearest.”

“Probably for the best,” Crowley waved the hand that wasn’t laced with Aziraphale’s carelessly.

That was how Aziraphale found himself spending the rest of his afternoon helping Adam and Warlock write essays about radical Jesus, with Crowley interjecting the odd point beside him. By the time the call had ended (because Adam had to go home for dinner) it was dark outside and Crowley, blessing in demonic disguise that he was, had brought Aziraphale a glass of red.

It was a good red, a Shiraz from Australia, if the bottle was to be believed. Which was a pleasant addition to Aziraphale senses as he gazed at Crowley, lost in thought after thought tying themselves together, as Crowley had cursed earbuds to do at the beginning of the millennium.

“That call reminded me of something,” Aziraphale said, breaking the silence. “When I did finally meet Jesus, shortly before his crucifixion, he knew me by my name.” Aziraphale peered up at Crowley, watching for his reaction. “Do you have any idea how he came to know it?”

“C-couldn’t say,” Crowley mumbled, suddenly very interested in his drink.

“Ah well,” Aziraphale resigned himself to being smug for the rest of the evening, “such a pity, I would like to thank whoever it was.”

Crowley rolled his eyes at Aziraphale fondly, “Why do you feel the need to ask if you already know the answer?”

“Because I like to hear you say it,” Aziraphale said, pressing a kiss against Crowley’s cheekbone. “I like to be reminded that no matter how much I may look back on my past with distaste, there’s always you there, loving me, even when I didn’t believe you were capable of it.”

“That was disgustingly sappy,” Crowley said, but his expression belied his disgusted tone.

“Not as sappy as telling Jesus Christ himself about your crush on an angel,”Aziraphale teased.

“I didn’t tell him,” Crowley spluttered, “It just sort of . . . came to light.”

Aziraphale hummed skeptically before pulling Crowley in for a proper kiss. 

“When you think about it,” Crowley said after they parted lips, “there’s something rather ironic about the antichrist calling to discuss Christ, isn’t there?” 

“Personally, I think Adam and Yeshua would get along, don’t you?” Aziraphale replied.

“He’d definitely like the idea of them rebelling against an unjust system,” Crowley agreed, “but you can’t deny the irony’s there.”

“Are we going to continue to kiss, or do you want to discuss irony?” Aziraphale asked.

“Well, you know the answer to that too,” Crowley said, leaning forward to kiss Aziraphale once again.


	16. Furcas Gets the Scoop of the Century

Furcas had always thought he was rather good at sneaking around if he did say so himself. The barrier around Tadfield was an issue, true, and one he would have to deal with eventually, but for now his goal was reconnaissance. This wasn’t the human world of clear-cut deadlines, he knew what he had to do, but he could take his sweet time doing it if he needed to. And he needed to. He wasn’t about to let his one chance to screw Crowley over slip through his fingers, and if he got to torture him for a bit in the process, well, that was just the cherry on top, wasn’t it?

But five of his marks left Tadfield on a regular enough basis that he was able to discern something of their routine. It didn’t feel right, like it was too easy, sure, he could follow them anywhere but Tadfield, but for 5/7ths of the week they left it willingly like they weren’t fearing for their lives. Furcas was determined not to make a fool of himself again.

He decided to treat this like a normal mission, like he was trying to find their weaknesses and claim their souls in the name of the Evil One. He could do that, even if it was very unusual, he usually went for people who’s temptation would lead to catastrophic, turn-the-cold-war-into-a-hot-war kind of temptations. But in the last 33 years, humans seemed to have changed a lot, so biding his time seemed like a good idea. 

He had watched the five children, collected information about them, careful to make sure they had no idea he was even there. He could see their wants rolling off them in waves, they were children, but children seemed to be much more aware of the world than they had been in the 1980s, they wanted a sustainable environmental future more than a lolly from the grocery store, he wondered what else had changed about them. 

Pepper Moonchild was easy, anger rolled off her in waves. She wanted to be listened to, for people to see that she was right, and she was willing to do whatever it took to make people listen to her even if it wasn’t of their own free will. Then Warlock Dowling, the fake-antichrist, they were so scared, they wanted to be loved and cared about, for their to be some way out of the cold life they had known, and to be secure in their new life, they wanted to believe they could keep what they had. Jeremy Wensleydale was harder, but after a week, Furcas could see his weakness, curiosity. Wensleydale wanted to know how everything worked, he wanted answers where there were none, Furcas could work with that. Brian Davies had also taken a while to understand, his great weakness was complacency, he just wanted things to go smoothly. Furcas hadn’t worked with complacency for a long time, he would be an interesting target. But the antichrist, Adam Young, didn’t seem to want anything. Sure, he’d want things like food, or attention, but he knew exactly how to get them. Furcas couldn’t find a single desire the child could have that Adam couldn’t meet and often exceed. This was deeply unprecedented. Furcas made the decision not to make a report based only on these findings, Beelzebub and their angel friend wanted results, not speculation.

Unable to find the human witch and her human partner (Furcas surmised they were staying within the wards), Furcas elected to pay his old demonic chum a visit. In this instance, the phrase ‘old chum’ can be considered to mean detested workplace rival where only one participant of the rivalry cared about or noticed said rivalry.

Crowley was not at his known location. The flat in Mayfair was completely empty. Well fuck, Furcas thought to himself. Crowley could have gone anywhere by now. While he was in London, he’d check the address the archangel had given him. It was a dusty old bookshop on Soho that seemed like a time capsule, completely out of place in 2019 London, but it stood there nonetheless, completely unaware of how out of place it appeared to be. Or perhaps it was aware and simply didn’t care.

It took him a moment to get past the terrible, overly sweet scent that followed angels everywhere they went. But when he did, the unmistakable scent beneath it was something he’d never expected to find here, in the domain of an angel. Crowley was here. 

Furcas tried the door, but it would not open to him. The building also repelled Furcas’ attempts to climb it. Leaving him flat on his arse in the middle of the street, and in need of a quick demonic miracle to remain unnoticed, which was key in reconnaissance missions. Furcas settled for climbing the building opposite and peering into the upstairs window. He had to know what was going on. Were they fighting? Or sorting out some kind of secret deal that had lead to them preventing the end of the world?

What he saw was something else entirely. This was more than he had ever expected. They were completely unaware that they were being watched, entangled in one another on an old poster bed in a picture of domesticity that made Furcas feel deeply uneasy (an emotion the demon was not used to feeling, it is, as a general rule, rather difficult to make a demon feel uneasy). Crowley was there, lying across the angel comfortably, and the angel had wrapped his arm around Crowley and was looking at him like . . . like . . .

Furcas couldn’t read angels like he could humans and other demons, his senses didn’t stretch out and taste what they were feeling. It had never been a problem before, if he’d seen an angel in the past he’d run away as quickly as he could. He’d heard stories of what this particular angel had done in Milan, some two thousand years prior. But this was like trying to understand a language he’d never bothered to learn. Fortunately, there were more mundane ways of figuring out what someone was feeling: Most demons never bothered to learn these ways, but Furcas had always rather liked television and his senses couldn’t stretch to see the truth of the people behind the screen, so he had adapted. 

Furcas looked closely at the principality Aziraphale, there was no mistaking the flash in his eyes as he gazed at Crowley. Furcas knew lust when he saw it. Lust he could deal with, he understood it well enough. But Crowley’s returning gaze held something Furcas had never seen in a demon before, something that made him feel more than a little sick to his stomach. This wasn’t like a language he didn’t know, it was more like trying to guess how a word was pronounced in a language he knew, but he’d never seen the word before, and it looked like it had a lot of those fiddly silent letter things in them (silent letters had been one of Crowley’s inventions, funnily enough). It was love. He shuddered to think the word at all. This definitely warranted a report.

And even if it didn’t he’d report anyway. Whatever it took to escape that display of affection. What Furcas failed to understand that, as he was not and never would be invited to watch Aziraphale and Crowley being disgustingly in love, it was in fact he who was in the wrong, spying on two people in an intimate moment, and he should have been counting his lucky stars that was all he had seen. But no, that didn’t occur to him at all.

Furcas stormed into Hell with all the self-importance of a journalist who’d just been handed the scoop of the century on a silver platter. He burst into Beelzebun’s office and shoved a demon out of his way. This may have seemed rude, but in Hell it was just standard practice, like marking an email as ‘urgent’. 

“Zomething to report already?” Beelzebub asked, not looking up from their desk.

“You’re going to want to get the angel down here for this.” Furcas said.

“Gabriel has better things to do than listen to your bullshit, and so, for that matter, do I, hurry up.”

“I saw Aziraphale and Crowley in the bookshop,” Furcas started, still feeling like Gabriel should have been there to hear this.

“How? The bookshop is protected against uzz?” Beelzebub said, looking up, but disinterestedly, probably hoping they’d caught Furcas in a lie.

“You know the bookshop has windows, right? Just because it’s warded doesn’t mean you can’t see in.” Furcas was beginning to see how Crowley and the angel had pulled it off, the bosses had no understanding of anything that happened outside the domains of the little offices.

“Well, what did you see?” Beelzebub was getting testy, and since Furcas really didn’t fancy having his body confiscated (It was brand new, and who knew what kind of muck it could get on it left lying around in Hell), he decided to get to the point as quickly as possible.

“They’re fucking.”

At the speed of light Beelzebub’s hand whipped out to the old rotary phone on their desk. 

“You better not be fucking with me right now,” they said as the phone rang. “Get down here. Now.” They said into the phone. Yeah, Furcas was really glad he was sure of what he’d seen, there was no way those two weren’t fucking. And the . . . other thing, it made Furcas sick to think about, but he was going to have to mention it in this report. 

“What” Gabriel said with a good-natured smile that was as brittle as broken glass, “could possibly be so important that you needed to bring me all the way down here?”

Beelzebub gestured for Furcas to speak. Gee, thanks, boss, Furcas thought sarcastically. 

“Crowley and the angel are fucking.” Gabriel’s eyebrows seemed to shoot high off his face as he heard that, but Furcas wasn’t done, even if saying it was gonna make him sick. “I think they’re . . .” He gagged, “ in love with each other.”

OK, good, he didn’t puke. It left a disgusting taste in his mouth though, just from saying the words. 

“That’s . . . not possible.” Gabriel said weakly.

“Furcas isn’t smart enough to make something like this up,” Beelzebub said, looking rather nauseous themself. 

It was true, but hey. 

Gabriel seemed to freeze for a moment before turning to Beelzebub and speaking so quickly that no human would have been able to keep up.

“Could that be how they got their immunity?”

Beelzebub looked at Gabriel with an expression that was somewhere between curious and disgusted.

“It izz a pozibility,” Beelzebub said, “neither event has happened before.”

“We would have to experiment to prove such a theory.” Gabriel said, looking at the wall which was leaking some kind of wet rot.

“No offense Gab, but, ew,” Furcas said with disgust and also to remind them that he was here, now that he had proven his worth and divulged this juicy tidbit, he had murdering to do.

“Don’t you have a job to be doing?” Beelzebub said shortly.

“Of course, Lord Beelzebub,” he said, bowing with plans fixed in his mind. The only problem was where to start, the human witch who never left the wards, or the demon immune to holy water, or the angel immune to hellfire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For what happened before Furcas rudely showed up click here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555637/chapters/55087252  
> Warning, here there be smut


	17. Souls and Mediocrity

Crowley had learned, in the centuries he’d spent in London, never to have expectations of what he might find. Not only was it a lot more fun to allow himself to be surprised by the bizarre ways Londoners would decide was the most sensible way to behave, but it prevented a great deal of disappointment on his end. He could vividly remember when they had decided that no body part could be mentioned in polite company, that had been a fun year, Aziraphale had been opening his bookshop and all Crowley had needed to do for something to be considered a ‘temptation’ was to flash his (hers at the time) ankles at a passerby. You never knew what new stupid trend would make way for some excellent schemes.

Still, he saw nothing out of the ordinary on his trip to the bakery and back, having retrieved only the finest pastries for his angel, who was dusting right near an unfortunate customer, who was definitely going to sneeze within the next few seconds. Crowley smiled at the image before carefully rearranging his features into something that screamed ‘don’t fuck with me’. This expression would of course soften as soon a he once again laid eyes on Aziraphale, but he had a reputation to maintain. Or rather, he was yet to figure out what kind of reputation he wanted to maintain anymore, but he wasn’t about to ruin the one he had before he’d decided.

And there he was, his angel, polite smile never wavering as the customer was ushered out.

“Oh Crowley dearest, are those kouign-amann? How exquisite!” Aziraphale bounded over to Crowley with the sort of blissful expression that sent Crowley’s mind spiralling straight into the gutter. 

Even in the near months it had been since Armageddon, Crowley still revelled in the wonderful combination of newness and familiarity that was their relationship. There was something so satisfying about not having to fight down the urge to hold Aziraphale’s hand as they walked over to the coffee table, or to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s temple as he sat down on the dowdy old couch, staring at the kouign-amann. Long ago, if he was in one of his worse moods, he used to envy the food Aziraphale would stare at the way he was gazing longingly at the kouign-amann. Now that he was allowed to be on the receiving end of that stare (and it was better than he had ever imagined it to be in the past), he didn’t begrudge the food it’s share of Aziraphale’s love and attention. Anything to make Aziraphale happy.

It helped that watching Aziraphale eat had always been one of Crowley’s preferred pastimes, and that had not changed one bit since the little armageddon that couldn’t. In fact, if Aziraphale had not stopped eating and looked out the window in surprise, then he wouldn’t have noticed anything amiss. There were a great many historical events that had suffered a similar fate, being ignored by both angel and demon, utterly lost in each other’s company. But this particular even pertained directly to both Aziraphale and Crowley, and had the good sense to parade itself right past Aziraphale’s window.

“Warlock? Adam?” 

Sure enough a group of eleven-year-olds were making their way past the bookshop in what must once have resembled two straight lines. 

That couldn’t be right, they were supposed to be at school. Humans were still doing the five day a week school thing, weren’t they? However they had gotten there, they were there now, and Crowley’s parenting instincts were kicking in. Not that he would ever have admitted to having such instincts.

They both marched outside in the hopes of finding some kind of explanation for the children’s sudden appearance, only to find that all five of the Them were there, somewhat awash in a sea of nameless and faceless children, being herded about like unruly cattle by two adults who were clearly on their fifth cup of coffee each. There was the kind of chaotic buzz that followed young children, perhaps amplified by the sheer volume of them.

Warlock nudged Pepper, gesturing over at Crowley and Aziraphale. “I told you this was his shop,” they said.

“We didn’t not believe you,” Adam said, rolling his eyes fondly.

“Actually, this is really good,” Wensley interjected, looking directly at Aziraphale and Crowley. “We were wondering if you could draw us a map of Heaven and Hell. You know, so we can plan a meeting spot for after we die.”

“We can try,” Crowley said.

“It could be quite difficult to draw something that transcends space as you know it,” Aziraphale added, before realising he was being sucked back into the scheme without any kind of explanation. “But that is quite beside the point, what on Earth are you doing in London?”

“We’re on an excursion, obviously.” Pepper said.

“Like a trip to go see things in real life, outside the school,” Adam explained upon seeing their blank faces.

“So they just sic you kids on the unsuspecting population of London?” Crowley said, “Nice.”

“Why hasn’t Miss Oakes come over?” Wensley asked suddenly, looking over at one of the teachers, “As far as she knows we’re talking to two strange adults.”

“Should she have?” Aziraphale asked.

“Yeah,” Brian said, “she has to make sure we don’t get kidnapped or anything.” Warlock snorted at that.

“Oakes is one of the good ones?” Crowley checked. It was difficult to keep track of which of Warlock’s teachers were supportive and decidedly not shit, and which were not.

Warlock nodded.

“Mrs Denholm isn’t though,” Adam said glaring daggers at the teacher some twelve students away. Aziraphale wondered how she would react to the fact that she was being ratted out to a demon and an angel by the antichrist.

“Really?” Crowley said, venom thick in his voice. “Perhaps I should go have a talk with her?”

“Perhaps you should,” Aziraphale agreed, having to choke back a laugh at Crowley’s incredulous expression. 

“Really?”

Aziraphale gestured as if to say ‘go ahead’ and Crowley’s entire being lit up with the sort of energy that promised fun and games, but definitely ended with someone getting very badly hurt.

Pepper watched him go with interest. “This should be fun,” she said.

Under most circumstances, Aziraphale would never have let himself be left alone with a group of curious children. Children were sticky and left marks in his books. And they had no verbal filter whatsoever, it made it very difficult to have a civilised conversation with them. Which was probably why Crowley got along with them so well. 

But these were not ordinary children. These were the children who planned to screw over Heaven and Hell’s entire way of living and make it something much, much better. At least he hoped that was what they were planning to do.

“Aziraphale, what are souls?” Wenselydale asked. “You’ve talked about them like they’re currency, and soldiers, but what actually are they?”

“That,” Aziraphale said, settling in, “is a very good question. Souls are the energy that makes your thoughts. They make your brain and body go, as it were. The only difference between a dead body and a living one is the presence of a soul. Souls are immortal in the real sense, they cannot be destroyed and neither angels nor demons can create them, which is why they are so sought after by both patties.” Aziraphale hoped he was making sense. It was always so difficult to explain something you had never had to think about or explain to anyone before. It was like a fundamental truth of the universe, like Gabriel micromanaging, or humans inventing alcohol no matter where in the world they were.

“However, a soul can be changed, unlike angels and demons. While a soul is in a human body on Earth, it develops an identity which keeps it separate from other souls, and makes an individual. When a soul goes to Heaven or Hell, they slowly lose their identity either to torture or to the . . .” Aziraphale trailed off.

“The boring version of paradise that Heaven thinks is a good time?” Pepper suggested, and goodness did she sound like Crowley. Aziraphale was vividly reminded of the end of the English Civil War.

“Well, yes. And then they essentially become foot soldiers for Armageddon.”

“Do animals have souls?” Brian asked.

“They do, but I’m not entirely sure what happens to them, it was never the department of anyone I knew.” Aziraphale himself had wondered about that a few times.

“So after we’ve got all the souls, what do we do then?” Brian asked Adam.

“I’m not sure,” Adam admitted, the words sounding wrong coming from his mouth. It clearly wasn’t something he said all that often.

“We can’t just let the bad people go free,” Pepper pointed out. “If you did bad things you should still be punished.”

“That’s true,” Adam said, “But how do we decide what makes a punishment fair? And Aziraphale just said souls could change. So should they only be punished until they don’t have an identity anymore? And then what?”

There was an uncomfortable silence made all the more palpable by the sounds of other conversations taking place around them. Aziraphale really wished he had an answer to this. It was the kind of question that made you question everything you knew about your own morality.

Warlock spoke, “Bad people punish themselves. If you give people the freedom to do whatever they want, and there’s not food or money or life or death, then they’ll find their own ways to have fun and do stuff. They don- If people do bad things or are mean, then no other souls will want to spend time with them, and they’ll get bored and lonely, punishing themselves.”

That made Aziraphale’s chest ache. Warlock knew more than their fair share about loneliness and boredom. 

“Warlock, that’s it!” Adam said, grinning at Warlock, whose face was turning red under Adam’s gaze. “You’re a genius!”

“M’not.” Was as much as Warlock managed to say.

Meanwhile, Patricia Denholm was having her day thoroughly ruined. A man who looked like the washed-up version of every singer she’d crushed on in her late teens, had walked up to her.

“Hi,” the man said, his smile brittle. “Name’s Crowley. I’m one of Warlock’s guardians.” Well that definitely wasn’t a good start. She had absolutely no patience for the child who couldn’t decide whether to be a boy or a girl. She didn’t think it was that difficult, look between your legs, figure it out, and shut up. Funnily enough, Patricia had approached a lot of life’s problems in a similar way, which was how she had found herself married to a mediocre pebble of a man, who worked a mediocre office job, and demanded that she do all of the work around the house, despite her working hours being longer than his, only to be rewarded by three seconds of disappointing sex at night. Patricia was not aware that Crowley could see all of this about her. Her simplistic view of ‘the way things should be’ had ruined her life, and she was trying to make sure it ruined everyone else’s too. 

Crowley had a lot of options, for what he could do. He could tempt her into doing something so stupid she got fired and never worked another day in her life, if he wanted to. But, despite not having heard a word of the conversation Aziraphale and the Them were having, he knew that humans punished themselves better than he ever could. He tapped her on the forehead and she saw it: The way he saw her. They way anyone who could see her mediocre life laid out before them would see her. It was the scariest thing she’d ever seen. 

Maybe she’d learn not to enforce rigid roles that weren’t real anyway on Warlock or any other kid, but even if she didn’t, she still had to live with herself.


	18. Mortification and Comfortable Silence

Warlock knew that their new school was different to their fancy old one. But it wasn’t  _ that _ different. There was no way Crowley should have been able to waltz over to Mrs Denholm and walk away with permission to take Warlock and their friends into the bookshop under the promise they’d be dropped off at home afterwards. Having supernatural guardians was awesome.

“Can we go somewhere?” they asked. They had, after all, been planning on spending the entire day in an unfamiliar place. It’d be a shame to put all that mental preparation to waste.

“Where d’you want to go?” Crowley asked. Even after their identities had been revealed to them, Warlock couldn’t help but notice that both Aziraphale and Crowley were still ready to indulge their every whim. That was probably unhealthy, but it was too fun for them to call them out on it.

Warlock shrugged. They just wanted to go on the adventure they were ready for.

“Can we go south?” Wensleydale asked. “I’ve never been South of London, what’s there?”

“Oh it’s lovely,” Aziraphale said. I spent a weekend in Brighton in 1821.”

“What were you doing in Brighton in 1821?” Adam asked.

Aziraphale turned a very interesting shade cerise. “I-I was on holiday with some friends.”

Warlock looked back to Crowley to see what he thought of these friends of Aziraphale’s, but he was smiling indulgently at the angel. 

“I don’t know that we can get to Brighton and back to Tadfield before you lot need to be home, not if Aziraphale is in the car anyway.” Crowley said. Warlock was very grateful that Aziraphale was going to be in the car. Anything to hold Crowley back from turning his car into a land-based rocketship.

“We could probably get down to Avington,” Aziraphale said, “provided the traffic isn’t too bad.” Warlock suspected that the traffic would be perfectly fine. “There’s a lot to see by the River Itchen.

Warlock wished they had remembered to warn their friends about Crowley’s driving before letting them get in the car. It was like Crowley was racing everything in sight and winning because nothing else knew they were racing. One particularly tricky bend made Warlock press against Adam despite their seatbelts. Warlock was still feeling a tingle where their cheek had pressed against Adam’s jaw even after the Bentley had come to a stop. They shook their head, telling themself to get a grip.

It was a kind of idyllic village that was somehow like Tadfield but also different in every conceivable way. Tadfield was familiar, it belonged to Adam in the oldests sense of the word, and as Adam’s friend, Warlock was welcome there, with a place entirely of their own choosing. 

Avington was uncharted territory. Sure, humans had been there for millenia, but not the Them. It was new and exciting and warranted exploration, but there was an element of wildness to it, like the land knew it wasn’t Adam’s, it belonged to people the Them had never even met, and it would not give up it’s secrets so easily to outsiders.

The challenge, of course, was what made the exploration seem so appealing.

Warlock followed the rest of the Them through a thicket to the bank of a river, which Brian proceeded to wade into. 

“Look, there are fish!” He said, staring at the murky waters in awe.

“Wicked!” Adam said, racing into the river after Brian.

“They look like some kind of trout,” Wensley said, taking a tenuous step into the river to investigate further. 

“You alright?” Pepper asked Warlock as she drew up beside them at the water’s edge.

“M’fine, just not used to wandering into strange rivers,” Warlock told her.

“You get used to it,” she grinned before racing into the water after the others. Warlock couldn’t have asked for a better big sister. They were pretty sure Pepper was going to save the world.

“I’m sure Crowley and Azirapahle will dry us out after,” Adam said as he waded over to Warlock, “you don’t have to worry about your clothes getting wet.”

“How’d you know that’s what I was thinking?”

“Well, you had to wear fancy clothes all the time before, right?” Adam said, not waiting for an answer he already knew, “So you’re used to having to worry about that sort of thing. But it’s just a uniform, and it’ll wash out anyway. No one’s gonna yell at you- well, someone might, but they’ll be yelling at all of us, not just you.” Adam reached out his arm, offering his hand to Warlock, his eyes alight with the promise of pulling them in.

“Thanks,” Warlock said, unable to resist the chance to hold Adam’s hand even if they wanted to.

* * *

“It’s as splendid as ever, this region,” Aziraphale remarked to Crowley some ten feet away from the children who were finding new and innovative ways to make themselves muddier.

“Didn’t know you were so fond of it,” Crowley replied.

“Well, you did spend the 19th century asleep,” Aziraphale pointed out. Crowley didn’t pout at that . . . much.

“Isn’t there a place near here called Devil’s Dyke near here? I helped name that one.” Crowley changed the topic.

“That’s further down in West Sussex.” Aziraphale said, going along with the subject change. “And of course you were behind that. I shouldn’t be surprised.” Aziraphale took a long and completely unnecessary breath, perhaps to remind himself that he was no longer contractually obligated to disapprove of Crowley’s antics, at least that was what Crowley like to think he was thinking, before speaking again, “It really is delightful down here, though.”

“Didn’t think you’d like it down here. Don’t you like bustling cities?”

“Well, yes, but I also like country towns. I did spend a good hundred-and-fifty years or so in a small village in France. And it’s warmer here than in London, which you like, but still close to London where we know where everything is . . .” Aziraphale trailed off, a wistful look in his eye.

The thought made Crowley feel old, not six thousand plus years old, the sort of old that leads to midlife crises and sports cars. They were, technically, retired: Did Aziraphale want to retire out to the country? Do the stereotypical retiree thing and find themselves a cosy little cottage. It was a more appealing thought than Crowley cared to admit to.

He followed Aziraphale’s gaze over to a row of ivy-covered walls that concealed back gardens and the homes to which they belonged. It was at that point that something Aziraphale had said snagged in his mind, ‘it’s warmer here than in London, which you like,’ Aziraphale had been thinking of him when he’d decided that he liked the area. Aziraphale cared about what he thought of places. He could still remember bristling with pride at being the first being Aziraphale had shown the bookshop to, and this was a thousand times stronger. 

“Well,” Crowley said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing miserably, “we could always come here for a holiday. Get away from the city?”

Aziraphale looked over at him and fixed Crowley with the same almost smug smile he had done when Crowley had miracled the paintball stain off his coat at Tadfield Manor. “That would be lovely,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley scoffed as if to say ‘whatever’ until his attention was caught by a surge of the emotion he knew as human embarrassment. 

* * *

Warlock was mortified. It had all been a silly game. The sort of thing a sensible person would have put a stop to several minutes prior, but they hadn’t. They had taken Adam’s hand and allowed themself to be guided deeper and deeper into the river. It had been actually magical for a second. Not magic in the way Crowley, Aziraphale, or even Anathema did it, the kind of magic that came from something no one could explain, and no one would even think to look for an explanation of beyond ‘you got lucky’: trout and lamprey swam around them and Brian managed to startle both himself and an otter who was busying itself by the riverbank. The scene could not have been more beautiful if it had tried.

But, such was Warlock’s way with things, they had found a way to screw everything up: 

They still hadn’t let go of Adam’s hand. They were sure one of them would have to break away soon, but Warlock didn’t want to be the one to do it, so they waited.

It is important to note that the part of the River Itchen that the Them were playing in, did not get any deeper that stomach depth, even for Warlock, the shortest of them. However, the river was surrounded by weeping willow trees and figwort, and other species of waterside tree, with root systems that went into the water. This fact, would soon make itself known to Warlock in the most unpleasant way possible.

They tripped, bringing Adam down with them. And like some horrible teen movie cliche, Warlock found themself sitting in the muddy river, with Adam almost on top of them. 

The panic started to crawl in, surrounding them from all directions. Not one moment ago, their heart had been beating quickly for good reasons, now it was picking up in terror. ‘He knows,’ his thoughts whispered to him. ‘He thinks you did that on purpose,’ ‘He’s disgusted by you,’ ‘They only let you stick around because they have to,’ ‘Why would anyone want to spend time with a mess like you?’

Warlock ran. They were hampered by their muddy clothes, but they continued to run. Past Crowley and Aziraphale, down the river until they couldn’t hear them calling them back over the roaring in their ears.

It was just too much. All of it. They just wanted people to understand, to not try and guess things about them. They’d have loved it if no one had dared to perceive them at all. But that wasn’t an option. Even with supernatural godparents. 

But they were also terrible and selfish and wanted more even than that. They wanted friends, the kind that made you feel good about yourself, who didn’t tear you down in the name of politics that neither of you really understood. They wanted someone who wouldn’t try to see them as anything but themself and would love them anyway. Not just because they felt like they had to.

Part of them wanted to keep going, to push forward with the stupid rush of happy chemicals that swamped their brain every time Adam smiled at them. But part of them just wanted this stupid crush to be over. No one goes on to marry their secondary-school crush. There was no point even trying to figure out if Adam liked them back, not if it was doomed to fail from the start. Not if it meant ruining their friendship, even if he was only friends with them out of pity.

“Did you know, once Aziraphale grabbed my hand when I wasn’t expecting it and I spent the next few weeks in a daze?” Crowley said as soon as he spotted Warlock.

Crowley sat down next to them, gazing out at the river. 

“You could go for it, you know?” he said, “just ask him out and see what happens.”

“No.” Warlock signed. “It’s not worth it. I like being friends, and Tadfield. And if it went bad Pepper might take my side and-” Warlock stopped speaking to breathe. “S’not worth it.”

Crowley smiled. He knew the feeling. “What are you going to do, then?”

Warlock shrugged. “Wait, I guess. Maybe we’ll get together when we’re older, or this crush will go away. I dunno. But I’m hap- no, but content, I guess? I’ll live.” They mostly said the part about maybe someday in the future so Crowley wouldn’t worry, but there was some tiny part of them, some glimmer of hope, that made them wish for a future like that.

“‘Course you will.” Crowley promised. “For what it’s worth, you picked a pretty great first crush, he’s a good kid. Literally saved the world.”

“So did you,” Warlock countered. “Literal angel. Who you still haven’t married yet, by the way”

“You’ve got me there.” Crowley laughed. The whole marriage thing had really just been a cover for why two of the staff at Winfield house were leaving at the same time, but Warlock seemed to have latched onto the idea, and Crowley had to admit that it sounded nice.

“Ready to find the others and drive home?”

“Five more minutes.” Warlock said, leaning over to they were leaning against Crowley’s bony side, staring out at the river in comfortable silence.


	19. There Aren’t Supposed to be Terms and Conditions for Loving your Kid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions conversion therapy, sexual harassment, and corrupt politicians. Obviously none of these actions is condoned either by myself or by the characters in the story. We do not romanticise abusive behaviour in this house.

Furcas had to admit that the house was cold, somehow, even at the beginning of Autumn, when it seemed like the weather hadn’t quite gotten the memo to cool down yet. Perhaps it had something to do with the grandeur of the place, empty, too-clean hallways that were eerily reminiscent of Heaven might sweep wind throughout the building as if to try and fill the void within it with something, even if it was just empty air.

The humans felt it too, even if they couldn’t quite understand it, they might say the house didn’t feel as though anybody lived there; though by all accounts a family and several live-in staff members did. 

With all that emptiness just begging to be filled with evil, Furcas got to work.

* * *

There is an observed phenomenon in humans that they notice things more once they have some reason to find the thing important. For example, if Brian’s mum bought a new car, say a Suzuki Grand Vitara, Brian would have found himself noticing Suzuki Grand Vitaras everywhere, because his brain would have decided that was important information, because Suzuki Grand Vitaras now had a meaning in Brian’s head beyond ‘generic car’.

This is why, several months and one Apocalypse ago, Adam never would have noticed the newspaper article sitting on his kitchen table. Headlines like ‘American Ambassador Makes Press Release’ weren’t the sort of thing 11-year-olds usually cared about. The only real reason Adam had ever looked at the newspaper before was if there was a cool picture or funny headline, the sort of thing he could cut out and show the Them. 

But presently, on the sort of airy Saturday September morning that cliché authors would use as pathetic fallacy to symbolise peace and tranquility, Adam did notice the headline. Because, in the last few months following the Apocalypse, the American Ambassador meant more to him than some nameless politician who would hopefully be dead or at least retired by the time Adam wielded any kind of voting power. The American Ambassador was Warlock’s wretched excuse for a father.

Adam had recently learned the word wretched from Aziraphale and it was becoming one of his favourites, it really captured the way Mr Dowling’s terrible parenting was both sad and anger-inducing. 

_ In other recent news, the US Ambassador has announced that he will be retiring from his position at the end of the year. This announcement has arrived after the release of information that took place over a month ago, where an insider at Winfield House leaked information regarding Thaddeus Dowling’s involvement in setting up so-called ‘conversion therapy’ camps in the UK, with ties that implicate the Vice President of the United States.  _

_ The insider also leaked several allegations from female staff members at Winfield House regarding their treatment by Mr Dowling. As well as revealing that the Dowlings paid these staff members in order to prevent them from going to the police or the press. _

_ In the press release announcing his retirement, Thaddeus Dowling declined to comment on the leaks , stating that he was retiring to spend more time with his family. Interestingly enough, there have been no sightings of the Ambassador’s son, Warlock Dowling, since August, with his school confirming that he hasn’t been in attendance. Mr and Mrs Dowling were contacted and asked if they would like to address the concerns regarding the leaks and disappearance of their son, but they declined to comment. _

_ Joseph Walker, The Times, 27/09/2019 _

“I’m having breakfast at Pepper’s,” he told his parents, racing out the door and onto his bike without waiting for a reply.

The ride over wasn’t long enough for Adam to really process what was happening, but that didn’t stop him from trying. He could talk to Pepper first ask her how best to break the news to Warlock, but that felt dishonest. It was probably stupid, but Adam wanted to be the one to tell Warlock, it was important to make sure they knew that Adam wouldn’t keep something like this from them. Adam just hoped they would be OK after they found out.

He left his bike on the front lawn and stopped in front of the doorstep where the newspaper was sitting innocently on Selene’s front doorstep, like it wasn’t filled with information that could hurt Warlock, could hurt the whole way of like the Them had built since the world had not quite ended and had suddenly become so much bigger.

He picked up the paper and removed the page with the stuff about Warlock’s dad. It wasn’t on the front page, or even the first several. That was a good thing, right? It meant there wasn’t some huge scandal. Or at least, no more of a scandal that people had come to expect from politicians.

More than anything, Adam wanted things to stay the same, he didn’t want the article to change anything. But he didn’t have a plan for how to stop things from changing before he knocked on the door. 

Warlock answered, dressed in an old T-shirt and pyjama shorts that had once belonged to Pepper. Adam didn’t normally think too much about what Warlock’s life had been like before they moved to Tadfield (it made him really angry), but the sight before him made him wonder about all the adjustments they’d had to make, going from having all the money and new stuff all the time, to Pepper’s hand-me-downs. 

“Hey,” Adam said eloquently. 

“What’s going on?” Warlock mumbled, clearly still half-asleep.

This was the part where Adam was supposed to say something that was understanding and would break the news of what had happened in a way that made Warlock feel OK, or at least, not worse. What he actually did, was say nothing.

“What is it?” Warlock asked, anxiety creeping into their voice as they searched Adam’s face for some kind of clue.

Adam knew Warlock was freaking out. They probably thought Adam was here to tell them that they weren’t friends anymore or something. They weren’t great at object permanence, Adam wasn’t going anywhere. He handed Warlock the paper just to stop whatever terrible thoughts were running through their heads.

“This is fine,” Warlock said, reading the paper, “Crowley and Aziraphale leaked data on all the stuff he’d don- Oh shit.”

“Yeah,” Adam said sadly, they’d seen the part about them.

Adam could visibly see Warlock shutting down as they stared, no longer reading the words on the page. 

“Let’s go somewhere,” he said, taking Warlock by the arm. “I won’t fall on you like last time, I promise,” Adam added, forcing himself to remember not to push Warlock too far this time. They were already panicking and he didn’t want to make it worse.

They ended up outdoors, sitting in the grass by the vegetable garden, eating apples as the rest of Tadfield woke up (the apples were courtesy of a sleeping RP Tyler). 

“What was it like?” Adam asked between mouthfuls, “growing up all rich and fancy and stuff?” He watched Warlock carefully before adding, “And don’t just say it was lonely and whatever, there must’ve been good bits too or no one would try to be rich.”

Warlock didn’t laugh, but they exhaled loudly and smiled, so Adam was counting that as a win.

“The stuff was nice,” they said, “I always had the newest phone and the newest games, so that was cool.” They paused, but Adam didn’t start speaking again, waiting for them to continue. “The clothes weren’t great, as soon as I could walk I had to wear little kid suits to things, and even my cheapest clothes were too expensive to get dirty. Nanny- Crowley would always clean them up so no one would know.” Warlock was getting into a rhythm now, Adam could see it as they spoke more confidently.

“And the garden was awesome. Broth- Aziraphale didn’t get mad at me when I decided to hide in the privet, the gardener before him used to yell at me for it.”

“What about your old school?” Adam asked.

“It sucked.” Warlock said flatly, until they saw Adam’s expression and laughed. “We were like mini versions of our parents, always trying to outdo each other. We didn’t have friends, we had allies. It was bullshit.”

“Sounds like it,” Adam agreed, tossing Warlock another apple. He’d never heard Warlock say so much at once, it was kind of nice, not in an ‘I want to make you do this more’ kind of way but in an ‘I’m glad you feel like you can say stuff to me’ kind of way, which was a lot better.

“I like this a lot better,” Warlock told Adam, “Even if I don’t have new stuff all the time.” There was vulnerability in that sentence, Adam could almost hear the unspoken question lying beneath it.

“Well, we’re not making you go back,” he promised. He knew it was a reckless promise, like the time he’d told Pepper, Wensley, and Brian that they were going to build a secret underground den in Hogback Wood, they hadn’t even dug a metre before they gave up, and Adam knew he shouldn’t have told them they’d have one when they wouldn’t. But even if he had no way of making sucre this promise came true, he had to say it, he had to believe it was possible. Sort of like how he’d kept a shovel in the wood, for if he decided to try and make the den again.

“I wish I’d gotten you away from them when I controlled the world,” Adam said.

“S’probably for the best. Who knows where I’d have ended up.”

“I was so angry then,” Adam admitted, even though this was something he’d even scared himself with. he didn’t want to tell the others about it, he didn’t want them to be scared of him ever again. “I was so sick of people screwing up the world and not caring because they got something out of it. I was sick of being told not to worry about what’s going wrong, even though no one is doing anything about it. And now I’m still angry: I’m angry at your parents for sucking, there aren’t supposed to be terms and conditions for loving your kid, you just do it!” Adam looked at Warlock, they didn’t look scared of him, so he kept going.

“I’m angry that that was normal for you.” He finished, it wasn’t a great ending, but it was the best he could come up with.

“I’m angry too,” Warlock said. “Every time Selene or Pepper are nice to me and I get surprised, they tell me ‘that’s what families do’ but it isn’t. Not for me anyway.” They kicked at the dirt. “I get so angry that I missed out, you know?”

Adam didn’t know, not really, he knew that his parents loved him more than anything in the world. But he could see it, Warlock getting frustrated seeing all the reminders of the childhood they’d missed. At least they’d had Crowley and Azirapahle.

That was it! 

“Warlock, do you have your phone?” Adam asked.

Warlock reached into their pyjama pocket. “Yeah.”

“We can get Crowley and Aziraphale to help make sure you stay,” Adam told them.

“Bold of you to assume my parents are even looking for me,” Warlock replied, Adam was beginning to regret teaching them that meme.

“Wouldn’t it look bad if they didn’t?” Adam rebutted.

“I guess.”

“Hey,” Adam said softly, seeing the way Warlock’s brows pinched together, “It’s going to be fine, we have an angel and a demon on our side.”

“And the antichrist,” Warlock said, with a weak half-smile.

“Yeah, and me, what more could you possibly want?”

“That’s stupid,” Warlock said, but they were smiling properly now as they typed. yeah, Adam decided, this was definitely a victory.


	20. Bait

For all intents and purposes, angelic and demonic power was only limited by any individual beings belief in what they could or would do. There was, however, another limit, just one that, most of the time, wasn’t nearly as important: Performing a miracle (demonic or otherwise) resulted in a pull at a being’s essence (holy or unholy) which was incredibly noticeable to any being attuned to such things. Aziraphale had been aware of this limit for years, fun little memos from Gabriel always written in a passive aggressive tone that ordered him to cut down on the miracles. But it was hard to remember, even now that their safety was very much dependant on Heaven and Hell ignoring them, when he was faced with anything that posed a danger to Warlock.

For celestial beings, reading the newspaper every single day is akin to that one person in the office who never stops checking the news. Reading every single word of the newspaper was just excessive, Aziraphale skimmed the odd article that Crowley suggested he might like (and this implied that Crowley was bothered to read it, which he often wasn’t), and otherwise paid it little to no heed. After all, there were books to be read, a far more enjoyable endeavour.

This attitude meant that Aziraphale had been woken up to the sound of a video call from Adam and Warlock with some truly unpleasant news. Until then he had been enjoying his morning, looking at an electronic mail notifying him that a copy of  _ In Our Time _ by Ernest Hemmingway was going up for sale, despite the fact that he owned a copy already. It was all the way in Shropshire, so he was unlikely to purchase it, but looking it over was something nice to do while he was held firmly in place by a tangle of Crowley’s limbs.

In his haste to do something - anything - he pushed Crowley out of bed (this was the only way he knew to wake Crowley up before 9).

“Gerrorf,” Crowley said from the floor, doing a vague approximation of sitting up. “Wassgoinon?” 

“I’ve just received some rather disturbing news,” Aziraphale replied, fluent in half-asleep-Crowley. 

It took Crowley several minutes to amble back onto the bed and read the image of the article Adam and Warlock had sent. Aziraphale tried to be patient, patience was, after all, a virtue, but with every second that past he found himself becoming more and more agitated.

He watched Crowley read the article again, his golden eyes tracing the page. Aziraphale suppressed a sigh of frustration, the words weren’t going to change no matter how many times Crowley re-read them. He took the tablet back.

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Crowley said, still looking at the tablet in Aziraphale’s hands. “We made it so they’d be left alone, we did do that, didn’t we?”

“We did,” Aziraphale agreed, thinking back to the night they’d broken into Winfield House. “We both performed miracles to ensure their safety and now something has broken them.” Aziraphale’s voice sped up and rose in pitch as he fretted. It would take an entity at least as powerful as they were to do such a thing, and Aziraphle could not say he was looking forward to finding out what it was. 

“Right,” Crowley said, meeting Aziraphale’s gaze. Aziraphale wondered if he looked as worried as Crowley did, probably more so, since Crowley’s expression was usually so guarded when it came to negative emotions. He pulled at the bedsheets nervously, trying to distract his mind by focusing on the feeling of cotton twisting over skin.

Before the apocalypse and the two of them finally dealing with the metric butt-tonne of romantic tension that had built up between them, Crowley would have reached for his sunglasses, miracled himself into some clothes and dragged Aziraphale to the Bentley. But that wasn’t what they did anymore, talking things through was no longer taboo, and was a lot better for Aziraphale’s stress levels.

“There’s two thing we need to do: make sure Warlock is safe, and find out whatever did this.” Crowley said, clearly awake now. “I reckon we should deal with Warlock first, ‘cause we know what we’re dealing with there. Angel?”

Aziraphale backtracked through his concerns in search of the more valid points his anxieties had made. “We can’t go back and do the same miracle again, because we know it can be broken,” he said. “We need to do this legally, the human way.”

“We have the stuff we’d need to adopt them, paperwork and identification and stuff,” Crowley supplied.

“And then what? Warlock ages and we don’t? Eventually they’d have to pretend to be our parents.” Aziraphale spoke quickly, words almost coming unbidden. “And what if someone were to look into it? If one ‘don’t notice this’ miracle can be broken, then who’s to say people won’t notice that this shop has had the same owner for 200 years.” Aziraphale stood up to pace, he had too much nervous energy for sitting in bed. “And we can’t do any miracle too grand because whoever broke the miracle would be able to sense it, and I’d be willing to bet that their miracles would be sanctioned by our former employers.” Aziraphale’s worries from so many months ago returned, he really didn’t want to be cut off from the source of his powers. 

It was to Crowley’s great credit that he did not immediately grab Aziraphale by the shoulders and order him to calm down. That never worked, and Crowley would know, he invented the act of telling horrifically anxious people to calm down like that would actually fix anything. Instead, he thought, putting his vastly beyond-the-bell-curve imagination to use. 

“Minor miracles only, keep Warlock with humans . . . Angel, would you say that using one’s demonic powers to forge a signature would count as a miracle?”

“Not really,” Azriraphale said, wondering where on Earth Crowley was going with this. 

“Technically, we don’t even need their signature, because Warlock being around them puts them at risk, but it’ll be faster and involve fewer lawyers if I just forge them. Selene’s already a foster parent so she has all the permission stuff. And we can date and file it to today. So I only need to miracle -” Crowley flourished his hand until some paper appeared, “ -this.”

“Is that a court order?” Aziraphale said, torn between astonished and concerned.

“Not quite, its formal adoption paperwork, already signed by a judge. Making it Lady Arden was probably overkill, but it won’t hurt. Now to just add the signatures.” Crowley gave Aziraphale a particularly demonic grin as he forged Mrs and Mrs Dowling’s signatures. 

  
“Dearest, surely someone will notice that they don’t remember signing that?”

“If they do we can always go for the old false memory trick, but only if they notice, which they probably won’t. We don’t even have to use a miracle, humans can be very suggestible even to each other.” Crowley was looking exceptionally pleased with himself. 

Aziraphale tried to find some kind of fault in Crowley’s reasoning. It wasn’t that he wanted Crowley to be wrong - far from it - but he had to be certain that this would go right, after all, they had no idea what they were dealing with. Sure, breaking one miracle could be an innocuous accident, but Aziraphale had never believed in coincidences and he wasn’t going to start now.

“So we’ll take the paperwork to Tadfield for Selene to sign,” Aziraphale confirmed. “And then what?”

“M’not entirely sure,” Crowley admitted, “but one problem at a time, yeah?”

“Very well.”

The drive to Tadfield was like second nature to them at this point. Aziraphale wouldn’t have been surprised if the Bentley knew the way all on it’s own. They pulled up outside Selene’s house, the smooth voice of Freddie Mercury announcing their arrival not only to the people inside, but also several neighbours and birds who had been peacefully resting their Saturday away. Aziraphale was sure this was Crowley’s idea of terrorising people with his evil ways. It was perhaps only marginally more evil than gluing coins to the footpath.

The door opened for them, allowing them to stop in front of Selene who was eating cereal at the coffee table in pyjamas that had once borne a slogan long since lost to frequent washing.

“We need you to sign this,” Crowley said, handing the stack of paperwork over to Selene.

“What - How did you get this? Is this even legal?” She asked, holding the paperwork as if it might explode. It showed how used to their antics she was that she didn’t demand an explanation as to how they had gotten past her locked door. Though, Aziraphale supposed that parenting the Them gave one a high tolerance for confusing nonsense.

“Sure,” Crowley said, adding, “plausible deniability,” as an explanation when Aziraphale cast him a disapproving look that was not a pout, whatever Crowley might have said later.

* * *

Furcas watched Crowley’s stupid black car pass into the warded town like it was easy. Furcas had tried to flip the car, but it hadn’t been willing to listen to him. Such a shame, he could have watched the light drain from Crowley’s face as he watched in horror as his angel got discorporated and his car was damaged beyond even miraculous repair. But no matter. Furcas knew why they were in Tadfield. They were doing damage control after he’d broken that silly miracle on the press and the Dowlings. Maybe their solution would work, maybe it wouldn’t, that wasn’t the point.

Furcas had tried several tactics to lure Aziraphale and Crowley out of London. Including, but not limited to: planting an old, valuable book in Ludlow as a lure, and making a valiant attempt at starting a war (Furcas was anything but original). 

But none of it had worked until Furcas had decided to ask himself ‘why’. Why ward the town where the apocalypse hadn’t happened? What was there that was so important. Furcas wasn’t sure if Crowley had always had a weakness for children (he had), but he certainly seemed to have one now, including the one he had been in charge of supervising. It hadn’t been that hard for Furcas to figure out a surefire way to lure them out of London.

So now he just had to wait until the much less flashy blue car drove outside the wards. It approached much more slowly than Crowley’s car had done. The man in it was a flurry on anxieties and insecurity, just ripe for the influencing. The man was delivering a few belongings to his mother, having recently helped some old bastard move house. Sure, it was a good deed, but Furcas could easily change that.

But influencing took time that Furcas wasn’t sure he had. If he didn’t make a report to Beelzebub soon they might decide he was taking too long and take back his body. 

Reluctantly, he detached his essence from his nice, comfortable body and pushed it into the man’s, possessing him. He rifled through the man’s thoughts as he squashed his soul down, making room for himself. Newton Pulsifer, the sort-of-boyfriend of the witch. Perfect.

Newton Pulsifer’s body dragged Furcas’ body into the passenger seat of the car before pulling out the surprisingly outdated phone in his pocket and calling Anathema. The Newton boy had placed a little sparkling heart emoji beside her contact name. Disgusting.

Newton’s soul put up a fight as he did, but this wasn’t Furcas’ first time possessing someone, he pushed the idea that it was just a bad dream down over Newton’s conscious mind, forcing him to relax.

“Hi Anathema,” he said into the phone, reaching through Newton’s memories to see how he spoke. “I’ve managed to pop both my back tires just near the entrance to the A40. Don’t suppose you know a spell that can fix them?” Mimicking Newton, Furcas chuckled awkwardly, “Or one to duplicate my spare tire? If not, I might be stuck here for hours while I wait for roadside assist.”

“Sure, Anathema said, “I don’t know about magical solutions, but I can keep you company.”

Perfect. “Great. See you soon.”


	21. It’s Only Paranoia When You’re Wong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mild gore and body horror

Anathema could tell that something was off, like the feeling of being about to sneeze and then not sneezing, the sensation didn’t linger for nearly as long as her thoughts on the matter. Anathema knew that her instincts were good. But her instincts had always previously been informed by a book that laid the future out to her on a silver platter. She shot a quick text to Warlock’s phone, just in case. There was no knowing what the future might hold anymore, and it didn’t hurt to have backup plans. ‘If you don’t hear from me in an hour, call Aziraphale and Crowley.’

The warding was supposed to have made her feel better. And it did, in a lot of ways. She was no longer scared to leave Jasmine cottage for fear of the unknown, Tadfield was safe, she had made sure of it. But there was still the issue of Newt. She worried about him when he left Tadfield to go see him mum in London. She worried when they were together that she was only with him because it was her way of holding onto what she had left of Agnes’ guidance. 

She liked that Newt treated her like she was capable, though. He didn’t let her give in to her fears. In fact, he thought she was fantastic and made a point of telling her as much whenever he could. He seemed to understand that, when she had a job to do, something to focus on, she was less terrified of what might happen because she was in control of making the future, not just watching it.

But her feeling of unease didn’t dissipate, even as she cycled close to the Tadfield border, and the wards gave her a comfortable hum of reassurance She could see Newt’s car, it seemed to be fine, sure she couldn’t see a tyre puncture from there but that wasn’t what was concerning her. Newt was slumped over the bonnet of the car and - was that blood?!

Anathema raced through the wards towards him. Oh God, it was blood. She tried to order his blood back into his body, but either it couldn’t hear her or it didn’t care. She couldn’t even see any wounds, blood was just trailing out his nose, ears and in a sickening way down the corner of his mouth. Like it was just pouring out whatever holes it could find. That particularly nasty thought made Anathema glad his eyes were shut.

They flickered for a moment, his eyelashes ticking the back of her hand as she turned his head, still searching for some kind of injury she could fix.

“‘Nathema,” he said.

“Shhh” Anathema whispered back, “It’s OK, I’m here now.”

“Anathema, you have to go. Run!” He said, his eyes opening wide and focusing on something behind her. 

She turned around to see something that made her insides lurch. This was a demon. Not a retired, actually-a-huge-softy, and very-much-whipped-by-an-angel demon like Crowley was. A proper, enjoys-torturing-souls-in-Hell-for-all-eternity kind of demon. And he was bearing down on her.

* * *

Newt fought to stay conscious, his body determined to drag him back into Oblivion, but he had to do something. He had to warn Anathema. The demon that had possessed him, whatever it’s name was, was going to hurt her, and it was using him to lure her into it. He berated himself. How many times had Anathema warned him about danger? How many times had he written it off as her being paranoid about the book? But she had been right. 

He tried to move but his limbs weren’t listening to him. But he could feel them. That was good, right? There was something pressing against his arms and legs. A strap of some kind. If he couldn’t feel the edges of each strap he would have assumed it was a tightly wound blanket. What he wouldn’t give to be back at Jasmine Cottage, half-asleep next to Anathema, both of them ignoring the other’s morning breath in the name of cuddling closer together. Anathema!

He had to get out of here. Anathema had come for him, he could remember that. But then what? He must have lost consciousness again. He probably didn’t have long until he passed out once more. He had to do something. He tried to move his arm again. OK, he could wiggle his fingers, that was good. 

Newt opened his eyes to the familiar interior of Dick Turpin. He was just in his car? Right. OK. He knew Dick Turpin, he could figure this out. He touched the straps that held him in place. They were just seatbelts. Newt pressed the release button, focusing hard on getting energy to his legs to stand up as soon as he was free. But nothing happened. Newt pressed at the button again, it was probably just stuck. No such luck. He could hear the distinct click and release. The button worked, but the straps refused to budge.

Magic. Of course. Newt was beginning to understand why Shadwell hated it so much. Anathema described it like things had a personality. Newt also had vivid memories of Crowley yelling at the plants in the vegetable garden. And of Aziraphale waking Anathema up like he was coaxing her awake.

Feeling like an idiot, he spoke. “Alright, look, I’m sure that demon has told you to hold me.” Where was he supposed to go from here? “But you are my car,” he said, without much conviction. “He isn’t the boss of you. I’m barely the boss of you.” OK that was better. “You’re really going to let some random demon you’ve never even met tell you what to do?” 

Was Dick Turpin even listening to him? He’d always know it was a bit pathetic that he’d given his car a name in the first place, but surely talking to it like it might understand him would go beyond pathetic to completely ridiculous. 

But it worked. The seatbelt clicked and Newt was released. “Thank you Dick Turpin.”

Getting out of the car was already something that was difficult to do with any kind of grace, doing so while trying to be quiet and with limited control over limbs was a mess. He reached about, grabbing something heavy off the back seat, the momentum of that action dragging him out of the car. Newt fell out more than he stepped out. Still, the grass by the side of the road hushed the sound of the ‘thud’ so Newt supposed he should be grateful for small mercies. 

He knew it wouldn’t be worth moving if he went in the wrong direction. He could practically feel the fog that danced at the edge of his vision counting down until it could consume him again. He listened out as best he could, trying to peer through the grass without lifting his neck.

But it wasn’t the five senses he’d been taught in school that alerted him to the demon’s location. It was something else entirely, something primeval. Every instinct inside his screamed at him to run, run away from the feeling of cold syrup, thick with fear. Newt used that rush of adrenaline to stand and proceeded to make an astoundingly stupid decision simply because there was a chance it might help Anathema. He hadn’t even questioned it.

He forced himself to walk towards the demon. Standing up, he realised he was still holding whatever he’d picked up off his back seat. It was heavier than he thought anything he’d been transporting had any right to be. It was an old cast iron skillet. Shadwell had said Madame Tracy’s was ‘better seasoned’ than his one and New had put it in a box of things to give to his mum. All those decisions felt so far away now. Had he really only set out for London that morning?

He probably should have put it down, but the weight pulling his right arm down was steadying, grounding. It gave him something to focus on that wasn’t every muscle screaming at him in protest both out of fear and exhaustion. 

* * *

“Huh, that’s weird,” Warlock pulled out their phone and showed it to Crowley. “Anathema usually remembers to text back after she sends me messages like this.” They were doing a lot better now that they knew they would be staying. Sitting calmly on the couch next to Crowley playing Pokémon Go! for old times’ sake.

“What do you mean?” Aziraphale asked.

“Every time she gets a bad feeling she does this,” Warlock explained, “Which is basically any time she leaves Tadfield. She’s never forgotten to message me back before”

Crowley exchanged a concerned glance with Aziraphale. Mortals had a word for it didn’t they? Post Traumatic M&Ms or something like that. Anathema had definitely been through a lot more than most mortals could handle over several lifetimes. Thanking whoever might have been listening that Anathema Device didn’t have the sort of automatic defence Adam Young had, Crowley headed for the Bentley.

“Either she’s in danger or has magically gotten over her paranoia. I know which one I’d bet on.” Crowley knew paranoia better than most. Aziraphale would understand.

“I suppose you could be right,” Aziraphale said, fussing with his jacket. Crowley could see that Aziraphale was clearly more nervous than he wanted to let on, but it made sense that he wouldn’t want to show it in front of Warlock. No need to give the kid more reasons to have nightmares. 

* * *

Newt took every step with care, knowing that one twig or particularly crunchy leaf would be all it would take to have the demon’s wrath turned against him. He could still feel demonic residue in his mind, like he wasn’t quite sure which thoughts belonged to him. 

“Drop your shield, witch,” the demon ordered. Newt could just make out Anathema, she was holding a cross out at the demon, and, he noticed, it seemed to work as some kind of repellent, the demon certainly wasn’t taking any steps closer.

Newt took another careful step, pressing a finger to his lips at Anathema. ‘Don’t let him see me’.

  
“Ha!” Anathema said in a good imitation of bravery, only Newt could hear her feet shuffling into the grass like they always did when she was nervous. “If you think this is bad, you should see what else I have in my bag.”

“Your tricks don’t fool me. I was simply offering you the chance to come quietly. After all, it would be so much nicer if your little boyfriend had a body to find after all this. Some closure, you know?” Newt really, really wanted to scream at that. But he kept moving, there were less than two metres between him and the demon now, but the closer he got, the greater the risk of being caught.

About half a mile away, there came the screeching of tires coming to a sudden stop. Newt watched Anathema visibly sag with relief. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley and Aziraphale approach the field.

“Furcas?” Came Crowley’s incredulous voice, making the demon wince.

“This doesn’t concern you, Crowley, not yet anyway. Go away before I-”

Furcas had been properly distracted by Crowley’s sudden appearance, giving Newt enough time to hit him across the head with the skillet. Metal hit his demonic corporation with a thick clang that definitely would have knocked a human out, Furcas visible wavered, but didn’t collapse. 

“Don’t think this is the end of this, snake boy, you aren’t safe, and neither is your pet angel.” Furcas said, disappearing into the Earth beneath him.

“Newt!” Anathema ran at him “I’m so glad you’re OK, I thought-”

“I’m alright,” he said, belying the fact that he was quite literally leaning on her to remain upright.

“Turns out my paranoia was good for something after all.” She said, snaking an arm around his waist to hold him steady.

“It’s only paranoia when you’re wrong,” Newt told her, ‘I’m beginning to think you’re right about everything.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said.

“Says the person who is almost carrying me back to safety,” Newt countered. Anathema rolled her eyes and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“C’mon, let’s get you healed.”


	22. Step 1: Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW I mention death, planning for death, and suicide in the second part of this chapter. Obviously, none of it is romanticised, as I think I’ve made the afterlife look pretty shit by now. But obviously, stay safe, make sure you’re in a suitable headspace before reading

If there was one way to make sure that anyone did something, it was to tell them not to do it. Such a phenomenon has already been observed several times already, after all, Crowley and Aziraphale were both very much told not to do anything that might stop Armageddon, and look at how that had turned out.

And yet, it had not occurred to Aziraphale or Crowley that when they gave an order, there was every chance it wouldn’t be obeyed. In fact, Warlock and Adam, still surprised by how quickly Crowley and Aziraphale had left to check on Anathema, hadn’t even waited until the Bentley was out of sight. 

Adam had nodded at Warlock and they’d both taken off after the car on their bikes. True, the Bentley had a demon at the wheel who viewed speed limits as gentle suggestions, but Adam decided they would be able to keep us, so they did. 

They followed the car part the Tadfield border and stopped some distance away so Aziraphale and Crowley wouldn’t see that they had followed. Adam really didn’t feel like getting a lecture from either of them. He went to follow them but Warlock grabbed his wrist.

“Wait,” they said, “find out what’s happening before you go jumping in.” Adam really, really wanted to see what was going on, but he had to admit that Warlock had a point. But this could be properly dangerous; the kind of dangerous that could get you killed.

“Alright,” Adam said, tugging Warlock behind the Bentley so they could watch without being spotted. Adam felt a jolt of sympathetic shock as Newt smacked the demon over the head with a frying pan. How Adam knew it was a demon, he couldn’t say, it was sort of like how he knew a day was going to be rainy before he looked out the window, like he could taste it on the air. It also helped that immediately after being hit with the skillet, the demon slunt into the Earth like that other demon had at the airbase, the one with the fly hat. Adam stood up to go over to everyone when Warlock tugged him back down.

“Look!” they said. Adam followed their pointing finger to the ground where the demon had been. There was a trail of disturbed Earth leading away from it, like when an underground animal tunneled in a cartoon. The demon hadn’t actually left.

“Right,” Adam said, standing up and following the trail as it wove its way away from Crowley and Aziraphale. 

“Adam, what are you doing?” Warlock demanded, following him anyway.

“We can’t just let him get away,” Adam said, stopping in front of the trail. He then did something that he was sure made him look like a right prat. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the demon coming out of the ground. He opened them. It had sort of worked. Not really though. The demon’s head was sticking out of the dirt like a particularly ugly flower.

“What the fuck!” The demon said, glaring up at Adam and Warlock. Adam was beginning to think that it was a good thing the demon hadn’t come all the way up through the ground like he was supposed to, with just his head above the ground he didn’t look nearly as threatening as he had standing over Anathema.

“Who are you?” Adam demanded, trying to put on his best interrogator face, like when he was head inquisitor, or captain of their pirate ship. “What do you want?”

“I already have what I want,” the demon said, “I just have to keep my mortgage repayments.” That sounded like the kind of stuff Adam’s dad talked about, or, in other words, boring.

Adam exchanged a glance with Warlock who signed, ‘more specific’ at him. “Why did you attack Anathema?”

“To make my repayments,” the demon said again, looking smug.

Adam glared at the demon who was clearly being deliberately vague. “Tell me!” He ordered, his temper rising.

“I have been ordered by Lord Beelzebub to kill her, you, you friends, the angel, and Crowley,” the demon said automatically.

Warlock took a step forward. “Do you have to do anything he asks?” they said.

“Answer their question,” Adam said. Warlock might have been onto something. Their dark eyes flickered over every surface, taking in any information that might help them. Adam was very grateful for the help, and it didn’t hurt that seeing Warlock all sleuthy and confident was a pleasant sight indeed. Not that Adam would ever admit that to Warlock’s face, they had enough to be dealing with.

“Yes,” the demon said, looking very annoyed.

Adam and Warlock exchanged excited glances.

“Tell us why.” Adam demanded.

“You’re the antichrist, the son of our lo-”

“I am not his son!” Adam said, giving the demon the sort of glare that made teachers look around nervously, and had other kids on the edge of their seats to see what would happen next. Incidentally, this glare mostly appeared when people deliberately misgendered Warlock.

“As you say,” the demon acquiesced uncomfortably.

“Tell me your name.” Adam tried again.

“Furcas.”

Adam looked at Furcas. He was definitely a lot more of a proper demon than Crowley was. Crowley was all smiles and “yes, angel” with just enough mischief to make him fun. This demon was consequences, when one tiny action, like telling Mrs Denholm she was a hateful transphobe (Pepper had taught them to say that whenever anything happened, Adam still only half-understood what it meant) lead to a week of detentions. Adam had been in the right and still been punished. That was what Furcas was. 

“Wh- Tell us why they sent you to kill us.” Adam had to remember to make each statement an order, this would have been so much easier if he could just ask questions.

“I don’t know,” Furcas said, a sly smile on his face at having overcome his compulsion to obey Adam.

“So guess,” Warlock said.

“Yeah. Guess. Tell us everything.” Adam added.

“Well, I’ve been asking them to let me at Crowley for decades. Smug git owes me after Chernobyl. He’s ‘involved’” Furcas made a face at this, “ with the angel so I assume it has something to with that. You lot managed to stop Armageddon, but it can’t be that because they didn’t send me until it had been months since then.” Furcas said. “Can I stop now?”

“Sure,” Adam said, realising that if he didn’t say yes, Furcas would keep going until he’d recounted everything in all of history.

Adam exchanged a look with Warlock, both of them signing the same thing: ‘they know’.

* * *

It might help, for the purpose of this making sense, for The Them’s plan to be laid out thusly:

Step 1: Die. Sure, this was a pretty morbid way to start the plan, but everything has to begin somewhere, and when the only way for any of them to get to Heaven or Hell was to die, this just made the most sense. The Them had spent many hours debating this particular step, contemplating things like ‘when’. This question has plagued humanity ever since they became aware of their own mortality (Shortly after Eve ate the apple). Of course there was no real way of knowing when they would die. Brian had suggested that they wait until the first of them died and then follow suite deliberately. Wensley had pointed out that was technically ‘ritual suicide’ and even Warlock, the most depressed of them, had agreed that was a bad idea. Which brings us to step 2.

Step 2: Wait. A boring step, yes, but a necessary one. After all, they had all agreed it would be rude to start the party before everyone had arrived. Of course, given that there were five of them and there was no way of knowing who would end up where (with one exception) waiting was so much a part of the plan that they decided to give it it’s own step.

Step 3: Find each other (if possible). This is where the whole ‘who knows where they’ll end up’ thing comes into play. Adam was informed by a very very apologetic Aziraphale that, as Satan’s son (which Adam still maintained he wasn’t), he couldn’t possibly go to Heaven. It was this exact sort of bullcrap that had the Them up in arms in the first place. But it did give them a starting point. Anyone who ended up in Hell would either look for or wait for Adam. Hopefully at least one of them would get into Heaven. Adam’s money was on Brian. After all, he was the nicest of them. Rather selfishly, Adam hoped Warlock would end up in Hell with him. And Pepper, if ever a person was guilty of the sin of Wrath it was her.

Step 4: Mobilise Hell. From Hell, Adam and anyone else there would start mobilising the troops. The newer ones, who hadn’t yet lost themselves to mindlessness. The ones who were in Hell because of something that wasn’t really a big deal. Everyone would be free eventually, but Adam really didn’t like the idea of fighting alongside Nazis, so the Nazis would be staying in the pits.

Step 5: Mobilise Heaven. If, somehow, none of them got into Heaven, this step would have to come after they had already busted out of Hell. But if anyone did get there, then things could happen a bit more efficiently. One of them would rally the troops (and let’s face it, the souls in Heaven would be dying (again) for something to do), and then everything would go from there. Sure there were “millions” of angels and demons - Aziraphale had informed them that the Enochian original (and original Hebrew for that matter) had simply specified that they were the size of an army, and that could be as few as three hundred if 480BC was anything to go off. And there had quite literally been billions of humans, so also like in 480BC, even if the angels and demons held out, their sheer numbers would eventually win.

Step 6: Attack. This step didn’t really need further explanation. They would try not to kill too many beings, though Crowley had snorted when they’d told him that and said ‘go for it’. Still, murdering foot soldiers didn’t sit right with Adam, it was the leadership that needed to be taken down. Warlock had suggested finding Robespierre in Hell and getting him to guillotine the archangels. But that had been voted down (much to Crowley and Aziraphale’s quiet disappointment).

Step 7: Implement the new system. Finally, they would give the remaining souls the power to create their own afterlife, with the restriction that they couldn’t create life. That meant arseholes couldn’t conjure up people to terrorise. Wensley, ever the philosopher, had also suggested that all people be shown the absolute truths of the universe after they die, so if they were bad they would know and feel guilty. Aziraphle wasn’t sure such a thing existed, but the Them had decided that if it did, they would add it to their plan.

* * *

This plan, in all of its iterations, had never been particularly kind to Heaven or Hell. From what Adam knew about those places, they didn’t exactly deserve any kindness. But it was like Pepper was always saying, “Power corrupts, the people who have it will do anything to hold onto it.” At which point Wensley would ask why Adam hadn’t destroyed the world and everyone would point out (not unfairly) that he nearly did. Adam really didn’t like that conversation when it was about him (However much he felt like me might deserve it), but he could see that it would be useful when it came to understanding Heaven and Hell. He had always assumed they would put up a fight, he just hadn’t expected that it would be so soon.

Adam was really tempted to order Furcas to hurt his corporation “Break your own arms and don’t heal them” was coming to mind. But that was exactly the sort of thing he would have done at Armageddon, flashes of a terrified Brian, Pepper, and Wensley lacking mouths and crying danced through his mind, making him keep his cool. So he said the only thing he could think of that was both an insult and an order.

“Go to Hell.”


	23. It’s Complicated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW The romance in this chapter is actually disgusting. It is so sappy and saccharine that I have raised my blood sugar level just by writing it. So be ready for that. Also on a super dumb personal note I’m basing Newt and Anathema’s dynamic off two of my friends who are getting married next month, they are the only straight (ish) couple I will ever stan (tehnically only one of them is straight).

Anathema was still clinging to Newt even after Aziraphale had healed him. She tried to will her fingers to let go, to unwind from around his arms, but they didn’t listen to her. He had been hurt, badly, and her mind couldn’t shake the image of him prone on the front of his car, no way of knowing if he would ever get up again.

Newt wiped some of the blood off his face. “Why didn’t this happen to Madame Tracy when you possessed her?” He asked Aziraphale, who pursed his lips and looked embarrassed.

“Well, I dear say, Madame Tracy was prepared, in some way, to accept me, she was in the middle of performing her séance when I arrived, and I did try to make it as comfortable a process as I could.” Aziraphale said.

“Yeah, this is more in line with what I’ve seen,” Crowley added. “Shouldn’t be permanent.” Anathema was relieved to hear that but also a little horrified by how blasé they were being about the whole thing. Newt could have died.

“Here.” She pulled Newt’s hand away from his face and carefully dabbed a handkerchief, wiping the last of the blood from his face and neck. Did she need to be peering at him as closely as she was to do it? No. Was that going to stop her? Also no. 

“Lift back?” Crowley offered.

“Please,” Newt said, not breaking his eye contact with Anathema.

They drove back to Jasmine Cottage in silence, the air in the car was too tense with fear to be broken with words. There was also a distinct feeling from each couple that they wanted to speak without the other present. So it didn’t surprise Anathema in the slightest when she helped Newt out of the car and Crowley and Aziraphale stayed inside.

“We’ll catch up,” Crowley had said by way of explanation. That suited Anathema just fine. 

“So,” Newt said once they were inside, “got any magical protection for me?”

“No,” Anathema laughed, though it bordered on hysterical. 

“Worth a shot,” Newt said, giving her a small smile. 

“I can’t believe you smacked a demon with a frying pan,” she said, it was the only thing she could think to say that wasn’t complicated and messy.

“He was threatening you,” Newt said, as though that explained everything, which, to him, it probably did. This, of course, brought all of Anathema’s complicated and messy feelings to the surface once more. She made a noise that she suspected made it sound like she was choking. Newt didn’t seem too alarmed, though, maybe it didn’t sound as bad to him.

“Look, I know you aren’t certain of things,” Newt began, “or you are, but not in the way that you’re used to being certain, but I never had a book of prophecies telling me about my future, I’ve just figured out what I want and what I’m going to do the long way. Or not at all in some cases.” Newt cast a glance over Anathema’s shoulder out the window, before turning back to her. “But I’m certain about you, even if you aren’t sure about me yet.”

That made Anathema startle. Surely she had been through enough by this point. She’d lived her whole life knowing that it was her destiny to try and save the world, knowing that it was possible, but only if she got it right, if the world ended it would be because of her mistake, not Agnes’. It had been her fault for not realising that Prophecy 313 “Child, beware the paints in thy mother’s bag, she will not appreciate thine talent” had meant ‘don’t draw on the walls with mom’s lipstick’. It had been her fault for not knowing Prophecy 53 “Beware the curse of womanhood, in your room of games and war” had meant she would get her period in gym class. It had been the Device family curse for as long as she could remember. Her mother had spent days pouring over the book after September 11, 2001, looking for some kind of warning she had missed. Anathema didn’t know if she’d ever found one. And Anathema had the most prophecies about her, after all, they had become more dense as armageddon had approached. 

But Newt had been the one to point it out, if Agnes had known that her prophecies would be needed, and that they would be there when the time was right, all she’d had to do was “pick a card, any card”. And he’d been right. Without the book, Anathema was no longer responsible for missing the warnings of disasters, natural or manmade. The burden had hurt her, and her family for much too long. Even if it had been a cause for a lot of their sense of security. 

Anathema wasn’t certain, not like she had been with the book. But she knew that the uncertain future was something she could control, that she played a part in. And even if she couldn’t see her future, she didn’t like to picture it without Newt in it. Stupid, lovely Newt, who let her take her time figuring things out, who never treated her like a burden or an inconvenience, even though she felt like one, who even now, didn’t take her emotional constipation to heart because he understood.

“I’m certain too.” And she was. Perhaps for the first time in her life. It wasn’t a certainty about what would happen, she was not a prophetess as Agens had been. But it was a certainty that, whatever happened, she wanted to have Newt there for it, with her. 

“Is it awful that I‘m surprised you said it back?” Newt asked

“Good,” Anathema said, “I’m sick of being the only one who gets surprised.” She kissed him then, not in an ‘it was prophesied and I might as well enjoy it’ sort of way, not in an ‘I’m scared of the future and right now you’re the only person who understands’ sort of way, but in a new way: An ‘I choose you’ sort of way.

The kiss continued long past the point where they had both considered stopping and decided against it. In fact, had it not been for the fact that their bodies were coming down from their adrenaline high, dampening them with fatigue, they would have kissed for much longer. But, Anathema realised, now that she had decided that Newt was going to be a part of her future, they had the rest of their lives for things like that. So, quite sensibly, they decided to pull apart, leaving Anathema to rest her head on Newt’s shoulder, and for him to gently place his head atop hers. 

* * *

Crowley turned to Aziraphale the moment Anathema had closed the door of the Bentley.

“We are fucked,” he said.

“Crowley, who was that?” Aziraphale asked, the trepidation in his voice making Crowley’s heart lurch. They were supposed to be left alone, they were done with all this. Somehow, not even two months since the world was supposed to end, they had gotten dragged back into this mess. Maybe it had been stupid to hope for any sort of peaceful life. Crowley should have known that She would never let him just be happy. But Aziraphale didn’t deserve this. He was the only decent angel left, perhaps the only one ever.

“Furcas,” Crowley said, “you remember him, Cuban Missile Crisis.”

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale agreed, “Didn’t you spend months hiding from him?”

“Wasn’t hiding,” Crowley said and his tone was not petulant, not even a little bit. “Furcas was just too stupid to realise that humans would do it all on their own.”

They lapsed into silence. What was Crowley supposed to say? “Sorry for dragging you into another mess, angel, fancy some dinner?” While that did have some potential, it wasn’t what needed to be said. The masks were off now, he couldn’t fall back on old tricks and hope they could just ignore the elephant in the room. Who had come up with that saying anyway? What elephant was it? Who put it in the room in the first place?

Crowley was distracting himself. The familiar buzz of anxiety that he’d only just managed to shake off was coming back with a vengeance. 

“Crowley?” Azirapahle said very gently, “What are we going to do?”

“Honestly? I have no clue.”

They didn’t touch as they entered Jasmine Cottage, not even an casual brush of the hands as they walked beside each other. They didn’t dare. They left Anathema and newt asleep on the sofa, with Aziraphale wrapping them in a blanket indulgently. That sight made Crowley’s heart hurt. Even if there was some way he could fix things by running away from Aziraphale - which he logically knew there wasn’t, his anxiety was just being a bitch, - he couldn’t do it. Crowley was fundamentally selfish when it came to Aziraphale, once he had whatever the angel was willing to give him, he couldn’t give it up. Once upon a time he had been so careful about making sure their meetings were few and far between, back when he’d written off his feelings as idle curiosity, an piqued interest in Aziraphale at best. But with every inch Aziraphale had offered, Crowley had taken a mile. He’d thought he was pushing things with the Arrangement. What he wouldn’t give to tell his 14th century counterpart what lay ahead.

Then again, that might be needlessly cruel, given how precarious their situation seemed now.

“Let’s go,” he said knowing Aziraphale would follow him to the car. He didn’t like this. He wanted to take Aziraphale’s hand and pull him away from all this trouble. Alpha Centauri was still there. They could still go. But they wouldn’t. There were no books on Alpha Centauri, no wine, no over-the-top dinners. And the world would still be here, the world they’d selfishly saved for their own enjoyment. Though, if Heaven or Hell had their way there wouldn’t be much left to enjoy.

The only sounds either of them heard for the entire drive back were the dulcet tones of Freddie Mercury. It wasn’t until they were back in the bookshop and Aziraphale had poured them each a glass of Glenlivet (this was an occasion when they needed something quite a bit stronger than the usual wine).

“I am sorry, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, sitting down beside him. Crowley was so surprised at this sudden apology that he almost slid down the couch.

“What for?” he asked.

“Still being so afraid. After all, if Furcas is the worst they can send after us, we really ought to be alright.” Aziraphale said, as though he were trying to convince himself.

“Still,” Crowley said, “They were supposed to leave us alone. I didn’t think it would last, but I thought we’d get longer than that.” Crowley lied, he had, in fact thought it would last. His optimism was like that.

Aziraphale pursed his lips, aware that Crowley was lying, but he didn’t say anything. 

They sat beside one another taking sips of their scotch until their glasses were empty. Someone had to refill, but neither wanted to move. Crowley wanted to stop time and hold everything in that moment close to him.

“Do you want a top up?” Azirapahle asked.

“Nah,” Crowley said, wrapping an arm around Aziraphale’s waist, “stay.”

Azirahale huffed something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh before tilting his head back to look at Crowley.

“You know,” he said, a sly smile on his face, “If they’re coming for us, who’s to say we shouldn’t be making the most of the time we have?”

Crowley found himself spluttering indignantly. “Do you have any idea how badly I wanted you to say that after the airbase?”

“Was that a ‘no’?” Aziraphale teased.

“‘Course not.” Crowley replied, getting ready to drag Aziraphale up the stairs by his ankle if he had to (he wouldn’t have to).

“Whatever happened to ‘stay’?” Aziraphale asked, standing up to kiss Crowley.

“You had a better idea.”


	24. Kill it With Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mentions of torture, school shootings, fire, and plenty of Furcas being the worst (™)

Furcas paced around the damp corridors of Hell, waiting for Adam’s order to wear off and to allow him to return. He hadn’t known about the antichrist’s power before coming face-to-face with it, but he supposed it only made sense. Adam was more powerful than he was, and in terms of Hell’s ranks outranked him by a long shot. Getting to the antichrist was going to be difficult, but he was still mostly human, even if Furcas didn’t do anything, Adam Young would die eventually. 

Furcas wasn’t stupid enough to try and give a report to Beelzebub, he rather liked having his own body and didn’t fancy having it damaged in a fit of rage. No, he would only report when he had something useful to say. Assuming he could make it out of Hell before Beelzebub noticed he was there. 

So, walking down the corridor, his boots squelching in who-knows-what, Furcas did what he did best: he plotted. Inspiration was hard to come by in Hell but he tried. Dipping the lot of them in boiling tar could be fun, but he’d have to get them all near a pit of said boiling tar and that just wasn’t feasible. No, he was just experiencing a setback, that didn’t mean he had to jump straight to traditional torture. There were ways around this. 

What he really needed, Furcas realised, was a win. Some way to get a foot in the door, ruin things for his victims in a way that would make sure they could never recover. And really, Furcas had wanted to ruin Crowley like that for decades. Furcas slipped down into Dagon’s office, careful not to draw any attention to himself, and started searching for Crowley’s file. He didn’t even try to make sense of Dagon’s filing system (it was in order of how badly each file smelled) and just went looking. He was there for what must have been an hour before he realised the file would almost certainly be in Beelzebub’s office. Fuck. 

He stuck to damp shadows and slid down several increasingly disgusting corridors until he had a good vantage point of Beelzebub’s door. He just hoped they would leave to attend to something soon. Furcas had no idea how long it had been, it was hard to tell the time when you couldn’t see any sort of light save flickering fluorescent bulbs, but eventually Beelzebub left the office. As quickly as he could, Furcas slipped inside just as the door closed behind them. Mentally congratulating himself on his sneaky infiltration of the office, even though this was Hell and people walked into empty offices all the time to play catch with brimstone or make sculptures with the mould. And that wasn’t even counting the maintenance people. Why, in Satan’s name, hadn’t he just put on a maintenance uniform and walked inside like he owned the place? That would have been a lot quicker.

There was a file open on their desk. It had pictures of Crowley in it so Furcas had, at first, thought it was the file he was looking for. But it wasn’t like any personnel file he’d ever seen before. There were even pages inside it that weren’t damp and slowly rotting, neet printed pages that were so white they were almost painful to look at were dispersed between the mildew-y pages Furcas knew. This was the complete file for the failed Armageddon. Starting with Crowley’s reports on the upbringing of Warlock, the fake antichrist, beside Aziraphale’s, both of which gave very conflicting views of the child. And then, as the date for the failed Armageddon grew closer, reports on each day as events progressed.

The actual day had thousands of memos and notes mushed together with no discernable method of organisation. Furcas almost didn’t bother trying to read it - after all, if they weren’t going to make it readable, why try? But he saw one picture, from Heaven’s notes. He squinted as he tried to read it, the brilliant white not making it easy to make out any image or work.

But right at the bottom of it was an image captioned, ‘taken from Fiona Ellis’ (human) phone, image shows the angel Aziraphale appearing incorporeally to speak with the Demon Crowley having left Heaven without a body.’ And yes, that was what the image showed. But Heaven had clearly only taken the random bar selfie of a girl to keep track of their rogue angel, none of them had noticed that Crowley was very clearly crying. 

Something had happened that had made Mr Glib cry in the middle of a bar in London, but what? Furcas had to know. He tried to piece a timeline together from the other pages from Heaven, but they were no help even after he’d figured out how to read them without going blind. Until he saw one, just a tiny automatic memo: ‘NOTE: the Earth address of the Principality Aziraphale has been set afire, allowances will be made for restorative miracles.’ It was dated in the early afternoon, Furcas could have sworn he’d seen a report from hell at a similar one. He shuffled around for it. There, it was Hastur’s timeline of events, and just under a particularly stubborn piece of what Furcas hoped was slime, he could see it, about 10 minutes earlier, ‘murder of a fellow demon, Ligur, followed by a call from the angel.’ There was an hour long gap between this and Hastur’s next report ‘Found demon in car, self discorporated’. Furcas wondered what had happened in the hour in between.

Not that it mattered, Furcas had figured it out. The thing that had devastated Crowley was his beloved (ugh) angel’s discorporation and subsequent bookshop fire. Something about those events had left Crowley drinking the Apocalypse away in a pub until his pet angel called on him. Gee, it would be such a shame if someone were to deliberately recreate those circumstances, wouldn’t it? And even more of a shame if there was no angel left to comfort Crowley.

Furcas grinned and made a bee-line for the nearest exit from Hell, he had a lot of work to do. 

It is important to note that Furcas only looked at the beginning of the file. He never could have read the whole thing before Beelzebub returned from wherever they were. But there was a large section that mentioned a theory Furcas himself had been present for, how it was that Aziraphale and Crowley could survive Hellfire and Holy Water. Upstairs, in Heaven, Beelzebub stepped out of the elevator.

Back on Earth, Furcas breathed in the sweet smell of hateful people running around doing things they didn’t enjoy to impress people they didn’t like, such was the wonder of humans at seven o’clock in the morning. It was his favourite smell in the whole world. He’d popped up at the Leyland’s on Shaftesbury Ave, nice and close to Soho. After all, there was no point in him buying all the things he needed and then having to lug them across London. And he was going to do this the human way, if there was no magical trail for Crowley to follow when he was done, then Crowley would be left with nothing. 

If everything went according to his plan, he’d get the angel too. Of course, since there was the issue of hellfire immunity, Furcas would have to settle for discorporating him, the angels could deal with him after that. Yes, he’d deliver Aziraphale to Heaven all wrapped up in a nice bow. Who knew better than he how much worse being without a body was compared to oblivion? Aziraphale would be forced to spend eternity being punished for his crimes. Somehow, Furcas was sure Aziraphale would not hold up well under torture. 

And Crowley. Well, if everything went according to plan Furcas would get to torture Crowley as much as he wanted on Earth, and when that got boring, he’d discorporate him and torture him in Hell. 

As for the humans, well, they really were unbelievably breakable, and once the wards were weakened without their demonic and angelic parts, he’d be able to stroll into Tadfield whenever he liked. Maybe he’d do something fun, like a school shooting, those were all the rage in Hell these days. 

He took what he needed from the store. Paying at the counter was so gauche, so he didn’t bother. Besides, the flash of anger from the clerk was so much more enjoyable than lining up and paying for things. He walked through Soho in the sort of relentless good mood that pissed everyone around him off, whistling, skipping every now and then just to be obnoxious. This was going to be the best day of his very long career and he was going to savour it. 

He smiled to himself as he poured gasoline around the windows of AZ Fell & Co. creating a nice, thick trail to the alley behind the shop. He knew the gasoline was overkill, the shop was plenty flammable as it was, but the idea of a dramatic ‘floosh!’ of fire lighting up Crowley’s face as he looked on in horror. Oh yes, that was going to be very, very good. He very carefully poured tar through the crack between the doors, leaving a sticky layer just on the inside, and then, all he had to do was wait.

It was late morning by the time Aziraphale and Crowley came downstairs, all wrapped up in each other in a way that made Furcas feel sick. They were so busy staring lovingly into each others eyes like idiots that they didn’t notice the smell of the gasoline, or the tar by the front door. How lovely. Furcas waited until they were settled, the angel sitting at his desk with Crowley finding new and interesting ways to drape himself across Aziraphale’s shoulders. They were the exact picture of domesticity. How fitting that Furcas was about to burn down their domus. 

It took him a few agonising moments to figure out how to use these bizarre modern matchsticks. What did they mean, he couldn’t just strike them on the ground? He had to use some stupid sandpaper thing on the side instead. 

He’d burned through nearly half the packet before he got one to stay alight, true it had slightly ruined his dramatic flourish, but no matter. He could see Crowley tasting the air, they were onto him. Well, Furcas thought to himself, no time like the present, and he pressed the match to the trail of gasoline.

It fwooshed very satisfyingly. He watched, wishing he had some popcorn as the colour drained from Crowley’s face. It was every bit as wonderful as he’d imagined, Crowley actually collapsed with fear, Furcas could sense the terror coming from him and it was better than anything else he had ever felt. 

The angel, clearly the more sensible of the two, carried Crowley to the front doors as quickly as he could, fusing about angrily, only to get stuck in the tar. Furcas was making a mental note to thank Looney Tunes in his speech back in hell. This was going to be amazing. 

Only then, the angel did something Furcas hadn’t been expecting. Stuck in the tar, he removed his shoes, very carefully and lept out of the building with an elegance Furcas hadn’t seen coming.

Well shit. 

Furcas did the only thing he could do, he ran. He had a vivid memory of Crowley giving a report in Milan almost two thousand years ago, telling stories about how Aziraphale had left the meeting of the consuls where Crowley had tried to stop the Edict of Milan from passing and had called down a burst of lightning so great it had discorporated all the demons nearby, save Crowley who had been lucky enough to escape. Of course, Furcas now suspected that luck had nothing to do with Crowley’s escape back then, but he had met the other demons who had been taken down in that fell swoop. And judging from the expression on Aziraphale’s face, the next bolt of lightning had Furcas’ name written all over it.


	25. Of Super Soakers and Power

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for PTSD, catatonia and flashbacks.

The bookshop was burning. Again. How was the bookshop burning again? Crowley reached out and couldn’t feel anything, no magic, no miracles, just Aziraphale trapped in a burning bookshop. He knew he had to do something, he had to move, he had to protect Aziraphale, but he couldn’t. He knew, logically, that Aziraphale was right there, next to him, but it was as if he was in two times at once: The present, with Aziraphale, and the day of Armageddon, where he had desperately searched for Aziraphale to no avail.

Aziraphale was there, he had a second chance at doing this right, at saving him, but it was like he was drowning in the first time.

Crowley tried to pull himself back to the present, to force his limbs to move, but they didn’t listen to him at the best of times, and now, a thick wall of shock stood between him and doing anything productive. 

Aziraphale is here, he kept telling himself, this isn’t like last time, Aziraphale is here. In another time and place, Crowley would have been rendered completely speechless in the most delightful way upon being carried bridal style by Aziraphale. But somehow, being rushed out of a burning building while they were under attack yet again didn’t really have the same ring to it as the for superior scenarios Crowley could conjure in his mind. He tried to hold onto that, those thoughts that weren’t of smoke and ash and fire. He had to hold on to Aziraphale if he was ever going to get out of this nightmarish version of the past.

* * *

Aziraphale could never recall being so angry. He didn’t think of himself ast the sort of being who experienced such an emotion on any sort of regular basis: Disgruntlement? Sure. Disappointment? By all means. Annoyance? Well, there was no denying that one. But he avoided framing his emotions as anger, even of the righteous variety, because if he started, who was to say he would ever be able to stop?

“Really?” He huffed at the bookshop, which promptly put itself out. “I expect everything to be back the way it was by the time I get back,” Aziraphale said, he was not threatening like Crowley was, but the bookshop had been his long enough that it knew when to take his threats seriously and when not to. 

Right, now he just had to figure out where to go. They could go to Crowley’s apartment, but somehow that felt like the wrong choice. What Aziraphale really wanted to do was put Crowley in a comfortable bed somewhere, kiss his forehead lovingly, and then go running after Furcas. 

Aziraphale was not a fighter, not really, but he was capable of fighting. He had been chosen to guard the tree of Good and Evil for a reason, not just for his stunning good looks as Crowley often hypothesised. For the first time in his existence, Aziraphale wished he had his flaming sword back. That would give Furcas a good scare. 

But no, the more Aziraphale thought, the more he realised that this was not the sort of thing he could deal with alone. Something of this magnitude required Crowley there to help him, just as he had always done since their first Arrangement way back in the 14th century. Aziraphale could still remember the swoop of elation he’d felt when he realised that it was possible for them to work together for that particular mission (not to mention the absolute hatred he had felt for John Holland, upon finding out about his treatment of Crowley). But Crowley was . . . well, Aziraphale wasn’t really sure what he was. 

He was still carrying Crowley in his arms, bridal style, and he could feel the rise and fall of the corporation’s chest, which while not strictly necessary, was deeply reassuring. Crowley was holding onto him tight, so he was present enough to do that, but his eyes had a glassy look about them, indicating that he wasn’t taking in any of their surroundings. 

Aziraphale turned to the Bentley and gently placed Crowley in the driver’s seat before seating himself in the passenger seat. He knew the Bentley, like his bookshop, was so much Crowley’s that it had developed something of a personality, a rather bratty one at that of Aziraphale’s memory served him correctly. But Crowley loved his car, and Aziraphale was certain that the Bentley loved him back just as much.

“As you can no doubt see, Crowley isn’t in any state to drive you, I’m afraid. However, it is a matter of urgency that we get to Tadfield.” Yes, Tadfield, Crowley would be safest within the wards while he dealt with whatever he was dealing with. To Aziraphale’s immense relief, the Bentley began to move.

“Thank you,” he said to the car. 

“ _ Another hero, /Another mindless crime/ Behind the curtain/ In the pantomime. _

_ / Hold the line./ Does anybody want to take it anymore?/ The show must go on./ Show must go on./ Inside my heart is breaking./ My make-up may be flaking./ But my smile still stays on _ .” The radio sang back. 

“Quite right,” Aziraphale said, allowing the song to wash over him. It was very reminiscent of Crowley and his ridiculous bravado. What Aziraphale wouldn’t give to have him suddenly make some flippant joke that completely disregarded the severity of their situation.

“Angel?” 

It wasn’t a joke, but it was Crowley. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale said, nearly breathless with joy. He leant across the car and kissed him.

“What happened to ‘no getting handsy in the car?’” Crowley asked, which Azirapahle probably wouldn’t have laughed at if he weren’t feeling slightly hysterical.

“I was so worried, you just shut down,” Azirapahle said.

“Erm- yeah,” Crowley said, “Sorry about that.”

“My dearest you have nothing to apologise for, The shop is alright and we’re almost at Tadfield.”

“Tadfield?” 

“I think we need to make a plan for how best to deal with our new problem.”

“Fair enough,” Crowley said.

The Bentley pulled into Selene’s driveway. Crowley and Aziraphale stumbled out with the unmistakable swollen lips and red cheeks that indicated that the ‘no getting handsy in the car’ rule as Crowley had so eloquently put it, had been thrown out the window. 

The three bicycles parked outside the front of the house indicated that all of the Them were there, having cycled home together after school.

There was something very unsettling about knocking on the door of that cottage-like house, in that idyllic English Village, for the door to be answered by sweet-looking school children, only to inform them of such a terrible thing. Aziraphale wished there was something, anything he could do to soften the blow, but there wasn’t. The Them needed to know what they were up against.

* * *

Adam listened, more than a little afraid, as Aziraphale told them about what had happened in London. He knew there was an answer to the problem, and he knew it was him. But-

Adam had never wanted to be the antichrist, he wanted his parents to be his parents, he wanted to be able to have fun with his friends in Hogback Wood, he wanted to worry about normal things like homework and climate change. But this was the real world, with angels and demons and monsters, and Adam knew that he had to help. And maybe, if he did help, he’d be able to have that life he wanted, with normal worries and his friends by his side. 

“I have an idea,” Adam said, stepping forwards. “Furcas has to do what I say. Warlock and I found him after he hurt Anathema and Newt.” Adam forced the words out. He knew it was going to remind everyone of Armageddon. It hadn’t quite been enough time that they could joke about it: “C’mon guys I only tried to destroy the world one time.” 

“He couldn’t disobey a direct order from Adam,” Warlock added. They hadn’t been there, they weren’t scared of him. That was kind of nice.

“Really? Crowley never had that problem with you?” Aziraphale pointed out. Though he could remember the few times he’d seen Crowley be given direct orders from Satan, Crowley had never disobeyed them exactly, just found rather roundabout ways to go about them. 

“Well, he’s been fired hasn’t he?” Warlock said. Adam wasn’t sure if he wanted Warlock to shut up or keep going: On one hand, it was nice having someone backing his point up, but on the other hand, he really hoped someone would come up with an alternative plan.

“I think,” Adam said, looking down, unwilling to meet the eyes of his friends, “I can make him do things, I can make him come here, I can stop him from doing anything to hurt you.”

Brian, Pepper, and Wensleydale changed concerned looks. “If it’s alright with you, Adam, I’d rather not be there for that,” Wensley said, making Adam deflate a bit.

“You don’t have to ask my permission,” Adam said, “I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do. Not again.”

“If that’s the case, I’ll stay with Wensley too,” Brian said.

“Me as well,” Pepper added.

There was an uneasy silence, a plea. Adam didn’t want his friends to be afraid of him, he had never wanted that, as soon as he’d realised what he was doing to them, he’d done his best to stop. 

“I’ll stay with Adam,” Warlock said. “What?” Warlock realised Adam was staring at them, “You need someone to be the voice of reason.”

“I don’t suppose any of you have any water?” Azirapahle asked. “Demons can be destroyed using Holy Water and if I bless some it ought to work.”

“I have a super soaker,’ Pepper volunteered. 

It took Pepper several minutes to explain to Aziraphale what a super soaker was. Adam was kind of surprised that he didn’t already know. What was the point in having infinite time and infinite money if you didn’t go blast your friends with a super soaker every once in a while? Adam felt like he was never going to understand grown-ups, and Aziraphale was as grown-up-ish as it was possible to get.

“Um,” Wensleydale said, in a tone that meant ‘attention please’. “If Adam tried to call Furcas into Tadfield, would he be able to get through the wards?”

Crowley frowned in thought. Adam realised Crowley hadn’t really said much since he’d arrived. “If it’s a direct order he would be able to get through. It would weaken him a lot though,” Crowley said.

“You should go to Hogback wood,” Adam told Pepper, Brian, and Wensley. “We’ll go down to the quarry and call him. See if you can get Anathema to come with you.”

“You got it,” Brian replied.

Adam had been very determined not to let himself get too afraid of this stuff, but here he was anyway. He didn’t want to turn into some power-hungry megalomaniac, he needed to remember what it was like to be human and that it was the actual best thing to be. An angel and a demon had both once told him as much.

Adam broke one of his own rules. He knew he’d made Warlock uncomfortable, that day in South Downs, but this was different, maybe it was OK to try again. He reached his hand out and took Warlock’s, keeping his grip loose so Warlock could pull away if they wanted to. Perhaps there was some part of him that was thinking something along the lines of ‘this day is already so strange, what’s the harm in making it worse’ or perhaps he had somehow known that Warlock wouldn’t jerk their hand away.

Hand in hand, angel and demon, antichrist and fake antichrist, they marched down to the quarry to end this nonsense.


	26. Holy Water Pistol

“I’m coming with you.” It wasn’t a question, but Aziraphale chose to pretend that it was. 

“Crowley, we’re using Holy Water, that means you need to stay away.” Aziraphale was beginning to wonder if he should be tallying the number of times he’d said as much. And to some extent, Aziraphale understood, if it were an angel after them, and Crowley was preparing to use Hellfire, Aziraphale would have been doing everything within his power to make sure he stayed with Crowley regardless. But he would allow himself to be talked out of it, once he’d made sure Crowley was going to be alright. But Crowley was stubbornly refusing to be talked down.

“I know Furcas,” Crowley said, “He can be sneaky, he might try somethi-”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaimed, “I am not going to be complicit in anything that could erase you from existence. Now that I have you, I rather intend to keep you, and for that to be possible, you need to be alive.” Crowley looked more than a little taken aback, he must not have been expecting Aziraphale’s candor. 

“I-” Crowley began, but they were nearly at the quarry and the time for pleasantries was long since over.

“You will wait with Warlock, a safe distance away and we will call you over once it is safe.”

Crowley turned back to look at Warlock, hoping the kid might give him some support. But Warlock was perfectly happy to be staying away from a murder-happy demon and was smart enough not to listen to Adam and Aziraphale. They were feeling rather good about the whole thing. Adam, with Pepper’s super soaker full of Holy Water, probably could have handled the whole thing by himself, but Warlock was glad of the backup. Sure, the plan seemed flawless now, but things that seemed like good ideas at the time often turned out not to be.

“You OK?” Warlock asked Adam, ignoring Crowley’s plight.

Adam shrugged. 

“Hey,” Warlock said softly, “non-verbal answers are my thing.” That made Adam crack a slight smile, Warlock hoped that meant they could press on. “Is this about everyone else not coming with you?”

Adam shrugged again. “I get it. What I did to them wasn’t alright. They should be scared of me, I nearly destroyed the world.”

“You also saved the world,” Warlock pointed out.

“Yeah, from myself.” Adam looked at the ground.

Warlock rolled their eyes and placed their left hand palm facing down, balling their right into a fist around Adam’s that came up to touch their palm. Warlock knew Adam knew this sign, it was the sign for stupid, and because they were holding hands Warlock had made Adam participate in calling himself stupid.

Adam exhaled loudly, it wasn’t quite a laugh, but it was something other than the self-pity he was currently swimming in so Warlock counted it as a win. As they walked together in silence, Warlock tried to make sense of what had happened when the world didn’t end.

They knew the sequence of events, that wasn’t hard to figure out. What was hard was trying to figure out why everyone was reacting to it the way they had. Adam didn’t like to talk about it. The Them didn’t like to talk about it. Aziraphale and Crowley talked about it a lot, like the story Crowley had told them when they’d retired from Winfield House, but even then, there were things Crowley glossed over, like the fire at the bookshop. Warlock hadn’t realised how awful that must have been until Crowley was forced to relive it earlier that day.

Everyone had a thing like that. Something they didn’t talk about, where they reacted in a way that didn’t make sense. For Warlock, that thing was almost everything, things being too noisy, itchy clothing tags, stiff collars, people yelling. But they suspected that everyone had a thing. Crowley’s was the fire, and Adam’s was the power he’d had when he nearly ended the world. 

“It isn’t as bad as you think it is,” Warlock said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Adam said, pulling his hand out from Warlock’s, already defensive. Warlock really should have thought through how they were going to say that.

“I didn’t mean- “ Warlock took a deep breath and started again, “It feels like you did something really bad and stupid and like you’re waiting to get in trouble. But it’s actually done, the thing is over and you’re already in trouble for it.” When Warlock broke a plate at Selene’s house they waited for hours for Selene to scream at them or kick them out, it took days and an intervention from Pepper for them to realise that being made to sweep up the mess had been the punishment. “If you talk about it, tell them you’re sorry and that you were scared too, they’ll forgive you, otherwise they wouldn’t still be your friends.” Warlock hoped Adam had gotten the message.

“What about you?” Adam asked, he was smiling now, which was a good sign, “Will you still be my friend after this?”

Warlock did their best not to blush and raised their left fist, shaking it up and down for ‘yes’. 

“OK then,” Adam said quietly to Warlock before raising his voice, “I think here’s good.” 

They were some way into the quarry, a deep pit of stone that had a sort of wasteland vibe going on. Warlock thought it would make an awesome setting for a first-person-shooter video game, but was pretty sure now wasn’t the time to point that out.

Warlock dragged a protesting Crowley behind a wall of piled-up rocks, and gave Adam a thumbs-up. Adam returned the gesture and took a deep breath in as he turned to face Aziraphale.

“Now?” he asked, sort of hoping Aziraphale would say no and they could all go home.

“No time like the present,” Aziraphale said. Darn.

“Furcas!’ Adam called, with every bit of that something primeval inside of him, the power that had almost destroyed the world but saved it, the power that scared Adam every bit as much as it was a part of him. “Come here!”

Nobody moved. It was as if the entire world was holding it’s breath. But most beings can only go for so long without breathing, so as the seconds ticked by into minutes, the world seemed to start up again, with no noticeable change.

Adam wasn’t sure what was happening; Had he done something wrong? Maybe. It wasn’t as though antichrist powers came with an instruction manual. He was about to suggest to Aziraphale that they try again tomorrow when there was a sound like two balloons rubbing against each other and Furcas appeared inside the wards looking like he’d just been squeezed within an inch of his life. 

“You!” Furcas said, glaring at both Adam and Aziraphale.

“Us,” Aziraphale agreed rather cheerfully.

“Don’t move!” Adam ordered quickly. He had to make sure Furcas didn’t notice Crowley and Warlock’s hiding spot. Furcas froze on the spot.

“Now,” Aziraphale said patiently, “Tell us why you’re here and who you’re working for.”

Furcas didn’t move.

“Right, sorry,” Adam said, shifting the super soaker in his grasp. “You can talk but don’t go anywhere.”

Furcas gave them both a brittle smile, “Why should I tell you anything?”

“Answer the question!” Adam ordered.

“I shouldn’t tell you anything, you are my enemies, after all.” Furcas answered, his smile now more firmly in place. Adam looked at him properly, he was still a little uncertain about killing him, he’d never killed anything before, let alone wiped an immortal out of existence. Furcas had long but rounded features, and when he spoke Adam could see his teeth, they were pointed and messibly arranged into multiple rows. He didn’t have animal eyes like Crowley did, or maybe he did, Adam couldn’t tell because he didn’t seem to have a distinct iris, there was just a pupil and white. He wore a scarf draped around his neck that resembled a moray eel. In fact, it was a little too lifelike for Adam’s comfort. Adam wondered if Crowley had ever worn snakes as an accessory, but since Crowley wasn’t even supposed to be here, he decided not to ask.

“Tell us why you’re here and who you’re working for, in English” Adam reiterated, patching up the loopholes as he found them, he didn’t want to make Furcas tell them only for it to be in Demon language.. 

Furcas’ expression soured a little at this, “I was sent here by Beelzebub and Gabriel to make sure that you weren’t able to go through with your little plan. Getting the traitor and his boyfriend was just a bonus”

“Tell me how they found out about our plans.”

Furcas laughed, “Search me, I have no idea. Were you stupid enough to write them down?”

Adam looked down to hide his embarrassment. They hadn’t exactly been discreet, working on it in school, talking about it as they cycled home. Adam had a vivid recollection of writing down ideas with Warlock during a religion class, that had to have been tempting fate.

“You’re too late anyway.” Adam said, pulling his confidence back. “The plan is done.”

“That’s not my problem, my job only said I have to kill you.” Furcas said, but Adam could see his pupil’s constricting in what he hoped was fear. 

“Do you know what this is?” Adam asked, deciding they’d heard enough. He was done with being scared of Furcas, being scared of Heaven and Hell. Humanity was stronger than them both by a long shot.

“Some sort of gun?” Furcas replied lazily.

“It’s a Holy Water pistol,” Adam said, pumping the pressure up as he pulled the trigger.

Adam didn’t hit Furcas square on, his aim wasn’t as good as Pepper’s, the jet of water went a little to the left, and Adam overcorrected, bringing it too far to the right. But a dash hit Furcas and Adam stopped as soon as he heard the screaming. It wasn’t like when his friends had killed the horsemen, this was permanent, and Adam was alone.

“That was wicked!” Adam turned around to the source of the voice to see Brian, Wensleydale, Pepper, and Dog racing down the sides of the old quarry.

“Good job, Adam,” Wensley said.

“You need to work on your aim,” Pepper added, but she was smiling at him. 

Adam’s grin only grew as Warlock joined them, but he pushed it away, as nice as this was, he still had something to say to them.

“Look,” he said, “I’m sorry . . . about scaring you then and . . .”

“Don’t be thick,” Pepper said, “We know you’re sorry and you aren’t going to do it again.” But when he met her gaze he could see that what she was actually saying was ‘I forgive you’.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Brian added.

“Thanks, Adam,” Wensley said, not sure what he could add that would be as nuanced as Pepper’s reply, so he just said what he was thinking.

“You know,” Brian said, changing the subject. “The ice-cream shop is still open for a few more minutes.”

“It’s nearly dinnertime,” Wensley pointed out.

“But Adam just took down a demon,” Warlock said, already making their way up the quarry walls. “That’s hungry work.”

“Yeah,” Adam agreed, he could really go for some ice-cream, “it really is.”

Back at the quarry, Crowley and Azirapahle looked at the smelly puddle that had once been Furcas.

“It’s no more pleasant the second time,” Crowley observed.

Aziraphale hummed in response.

“But look on the bright side,” Crowley encouraged, “It was the Them’s plan that started all this, they might actually leave us alone for real this time.”

“You don’t mean that we aren’t going to keep an eye on them, we’re far too invested now.” Aziraphale replied.

“‘Course we are,” Crowley said, sounding a little offended that it had even been a question. “But maybe it’s time for us to look into retiring, you know? The kids have it all under control, we can just be wise old guardians they come to for advice. We don’t have to be in the thick of things anymore.”

“To quote one of Warlock’s me-mes,” Aziraphale mispronounced it just to see Crowley and the children wince, “bold of you to assume that we are wise.”

“M’not even going to dignify that with a response, angel,” Crowley said, dignifying it with a response. “Let’s go home.”


	27. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: Yes, I know this chapter is a bit all over the place but hear me out.

“I’ve been thinking, you know,” Crowley whispered into Aziraphale’s curls as they lay on the couch, intertwined.

“That’s never a good sign,” Aziraphale teased. It had been a day since they had destroyed Furcas, the bookshop was entirely back in order, but something about it had seemed off to Crowley ever since they’d returned, Crowley didn’t like it, like they were no longer safe there.

“We should retire, properly. Buy a little cottage in South Downs and enjoy the rest of time.” Crowley tried to keep his tone nonchalant, but it was difficult because he had never wanted anything so badly before. Well, maybe Aziraphale, but still. 

“Oh?” Aziraphale said.

“Not right away,” Crowley said, “You have the shop and everything, but maybe we could slowly start thinking about it.”

“I like the idea,” Aziraphale said, “But of course you and I were to buy a house together, it would be an awful lot like getting married.”

“You-Wha-” Crowley spluttered, unable to make any sense of that sentence.

Aziraphale laughed, and it was such a beautiful laugh that Crowley stopped spluttering just to listen to it, which gave him some idea of how to proceed.

“I didn’t think you’d want all that,” Crowley said, hoarsely.

“I don’t feel the need to make a legal and binding declaration of our love for one another, no, I think we’ve already gone far beyond that. But it could be nice, a cosy wedding, while we have so many human friends. Binding myself to you in Her eyes.”

Crowley was a little taken aback, Aziraphale was prepared to scream their relationship in God’s face when scarcely a year ago they’d had to pretend they didn’t know each other. He felt tears prick at his eyes, which he immediately ordered away. They didn’t listen.

“But we have plenty of time,” Aziraphale said, “no need to rush into things.”

Crowley couldn’t help but think about how he had rushed into falling in love with Aziraphale. It had only taken four words (and to this day ‘I gave it away’ were four of Crowley’s favourite words) and he’d been hopelessly enamoured. 

And they did have plenty of time. Warlock was thrilled to find out they were engaged, but probably should have realised that celestial beings don’t exactly work on human time. There were seven years between the engagement and the actual wedding. Which Crowley had, of course planned so the Them would be old enough to drink, and could attend without parental supervision.

So, four university students and one culinary school student had arrived at the small cottage in South Downs to see Anathema, Newt, little Aggie (no one in their right mind referred to her as Agnes), Shadwell, and Tracey (who Crowley had mostly invited out of spite) all standing around a floral archway that was somehow growing fritillaria meleagris and brugmansia (better known as snake’s head and angel trumpet).

Anathema presided over the ceremony which was still in the name of God, but wasn’t necessarily religious.

The vows were short with Crowley only able to say “I’ve loved you for 6030 years and I’m not going to stop anytime soon” before getting too choked up to continue. And Aziraphale quickly followed suit, reduced to a teary mess where only the words “love”, “wonderful”, and “dearest” could be made out even by Wensley who was sitting right in front of them. 

The swept down the aisle between the seats in each other’s arms, Crowley’s long train dragging behind them, black lace dotted with tiny crystals arranged like stars.

“So,” Crowley whispered in Aziraphale’s ear, “how does it feel to be married?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” Aziraphale whispered back.

Crowley tilted his head back and barked a laugh. It was hard not to smile and laugh while watching the perfect future that had never existed outside dreams become a reality.

“Shall we go bother the kids about school?” Crowley asked. “I know you want to talk to Brian about food stuff.”

“And you want to try and get Adam and Warlock drunk enough to admit their feelings to each other,” Aziraphale accused lightly.

“It’s been seven yearss angel!” Crowley said hypocritically. “And I also want to hear Pepper go on a rant about something. She knows so much about everything and is always so angry,” Crowley smiled, “and Wensley’s doing so well, with a job already lined up . . .” Crowley trailed off, realising how much he sounded like a doting parent. “Shut up,” he said to Aziraphale’s smirk.

“Go,” Aziraphale laughed, “torment the children, you wicked thing!” He planted a kiss on Crowley’s cheek and went off to rescue Brian from said tormenting.

Crowley walked over to where Adam, Pepper, Warlock, and Wensleydale were standing. “So, how’s adulthood treating you?” He asked.

“Adulthood isn’t real, it’s just an arbitrary age people picked so they wouldn’t have to think too hard about what makes a person smart enough to be able to make decisions about themselves,” Pepper said.

Warlock shrugged. “Same as before,” they signed.

“It’s hard to have a whole life ahead of you when you peaked at 11,” Adam joked.

“Am I the only person who’s enjoying it?” Wensley demanded.

“It’s fine, just different,” Adam replied.

Crowley let the conversation continue for a little longer before stealing Warlock away. 

“You alright, really?” he asked.

“Yeah, things are good. We’re making the most of our lives and then waiting to die, just like the plan.”

“You always did prefer a good plan,” Crowley mused. “Have you asked Adam out yet?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Warlock replied, “I have a date next week with Lee.” 

Crowley put his hands up in surrender, “OK, OK, old habits die hard I suppose.”

“Are you a man or a woman today?” Warlock asked, gesturing to Crowley’s elaborate coat dress.

“I don’t really care.” 

“That’s what you are all the time,” Warlock laughed.

“Not true! The only thing I am all the time is in love with Aziraphale.”

Warlock smirked at that, but leant forward to hug Crowley, carefully avoiding tripping over their long skirt as they did.

“You’ll still be around, right?” Warlock checked.

“‘Course we will, just here instead of in London. And you lot get the shop once semester starts back up. Rent free, as we agreed.”

“You’re the best,” Warlock said.

“Am not! I’m the worst and don’t you forget it,” Crowley said with mock indignation.

A twig snapping behind them alerted them both to Aziraphale’s presence. Once upon a time, Crowley would have been deeply embarrassed for Aziraphale to see him being all tender and kind, but that time was long gone. Crowley couldn’t hide behind a mask of evil anymore, and everyone at the wedding was well aware of what a huge softy he was. He still pretended to be embarrassed, though.

“I thought I might find you two here,” Aziraphale said slyly.

“Angel,” Crowley hissed but there was no malice to it.

“It’s time to cut the cake and Brian has promised me that it is exquisite,” Aziraphale said, linking his arm through Crowley’s.

“Well, I wouldn’t stand between you and the cake, that’s the whole reason you wanted to throw a wedding.”

“Not the only reason, but yes, it is a rather high priority.” Aziraphale agreed.

They fed each other slices of the cake in a way that was so romantic Pepper mimed being sick into a nearby bush. Crowley pretended not to notice.

And even after all the guests had left and it was just the two of them sitting on the front step of the cottage, they didn’t stop with the sappiness. They had bought the house several years ago, but had decided to make their wedding their moving day, saving them the bother of throwing a house-warming party later. Crowley rested his cheek on Aziraphale’s shoulder and smiled.

“This,” Crowley said, “Was totally worth saving the world for.”

Aziraphale chucked and kissed him, “This is worth anything.”

Tenderness was not something Crowley had ever expected to receive in his life, and as a result was never quite ready for it. But finally, he had learned it, romantically from Aziraphale, and familially from the Them. Because deep down, Crowley knew that the reason heaven and Hell would always lose was because they were so wrapped up in capital G Good and capital E Evil, that they forgot to be kind. And that would be their downfall, because humanity was, by definition, kindness, tenderness, and all of the warmth that people chose to share with one another.

* * *

Adam Young carefully made his way up to the Maître D’ of the Ritz. The journey wasn’t nearly as easy as it had once been, his electric wheelchair only avoiding the small bumps because Adam was so familiar with the setting.

“Booking for three under either the name Fell or Crowley,” Adam said.

“Ah, yes, Crowley party of three, right here,” the Maître D’ said, “Your grandchildren are already here.”

Adam stifled a laugh at that. He might have been old, 100 years old in fact, but that was nothing compared to Crowley and Aziraphale. But he saw no reason to argue the point. He had quite a bit to sort out tonight, and he would need all of his remaining energy.

He drove his chair up to the table and offered both Aziraphale and Crowley a smile. Of course, they looked the same as ever. It had been so strange to go from being a child, to a teenager, to an adult, to an old man while they had stayed the same. It made Adam realise how much he would hate to be an angel or a demon, growing and changing were some of the most exciting parts of life, he wouldn’t give them up for anything.

“You look well, Adam,” Aziraphale said.

“Don’t lie to me, Aziraphale, I look old,” Adam said, still smiling.

Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale seemed to have anything to say to that. Adam understood that it was hard for them, understanding mortality. They hadn’t dealt well with the rest of the Them’s deaths, or even with the concept of death in general, but that had to change.

“I’m dying.” Adam told them. “It’s my time and I am ready, I just wanted to prepare you for it.” Once upon a time, Adam would have tried to talk about something innocuous at first, to ease Crowley and Aziraphale into the conversation, but he had so little time left and there was no point in wasting it. 

It seemed to take them both a moment to find their voices. “And then,” Crowley said, recovering first, “it’ll be time for your plan?”

“It will.” Adam agreed, “It will be good to see them again.”

“They might have changed,” Aziraphale warned. 

“They’ll still be them, though,” Adam replied. 

“Tell them we said hi, yeah?” Crowley said, sounding a little choked up. Adam understood that by ‘hi’, Crowley actually meant for Adam to tell his friends how very missed they were, by their families, and by Aziraphale and Crowley most of all.

“‘Course,” Adam replied. Of course he would, he missed them too: Brian, Wensleydale, Pepper, and Warlock, especially Warlock.

“We’ll try and get a message to you if it works,” Adam said, trying to hold back the tears that always threatened when he thought of Warlock, “but I can’t say for sure if it will be possible.”

“Yeah,” Crowley said tightly.

“You aren’t afraid?” Aziraphale asked, and Adam was reminded of the stories he’d been told about Leonardo da Vinci, who’s last rites Aziraphale himself had performed. He wondered if he’d get to meet Crowley’s old friend after it was all over.

“I can’t be,” Adam said, “I’m going to see Warlock again.”

Adam managed to keep his composure, but it took a minute. He had so many wonderful memories that he did his best to focus on, putting the sweet in bittersweet as Brian had once put it. “We could have had so much more time,” he laughed, thinking of their teenage years and early adulthood where they’d both been too afraid to make a move.

“You got there in the end,” Crowley said.

“No thanks to either of you,” Adam retorted. It was an old argument, the Crowley had played matchmaker too much or too little, that Aziraphale should have just told them both that their feelings were requited. Secretly, Adam was happy with the way things had gone, even if they had taken the long way around. 

Maybe Adam was becoming sentimental in his old age, but he could have sworn that everything had been perfect, even when they’d argued they’d known each other well enough to know where to draw the line and how to work things about: Like when Warlock had desperately tried to pick a wedding outfit without Crowley’s help, and Adam had called Crowley simply because he knew Warlock needed the support, even if Warlock was in denial about it. Or when they had ignored Adam’s decision not to do gifts to each other for Christmas one year and had insisted that it wasn’t a christmas gift, just something Warlock had picked up that reminded them of Adam that they had happened to gift wrap and give him on the 25th.

So much of Adam’s and Warlock’s relationship had been filled with moments like those that Pepper would have called ‘disgusting’. Warlock had crocheted her a blanket using the asexual and aromantic flags for that same Christmas, which Pepper would wrap herself in and mime being sick on whenever they were particualrly saccharine. God, Adam missed them all so much.

Adam was brought out of his nice trip down memory lane by the arrival of their entrées. They ate in comfortable silence, Adam wanted to savour it, since there was every chance it would be the last decent meal he ever got to have. But when it was all over he reached across the table to both of them, taking their hands in his own.

“Look out for everyone,” Adam said, he didn’t give orders that often after what had happened with Furcas all those years ago, and he knew Aziraphale and Crowley didn’t have to listen to him, but he just hoped they would.

“We will,” Aziraphale promised.

“That includes each other,” Adam added sternly.

“We will,” Crowley laughed. 

“Good,” Adam said, putting his chair in reverse. “I hope to see you on the other side one day.”


End file.
